


Tossing Starfish

by morgaine2005



Series: Take Me Home and Related Tales [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (For the canon of the Bible and the Arthurian legend), Arthurian legend - Freeform, Baby Death, Battle of Salisbury, Canon-Typical Violence, Exodus - Freeform, F/M, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Happy Ending, I swear nothing is graphically described, M/M, May Day Massacre, Other, Supernatural violence, Violence, deadnaming (it's very brief and is an honest mistake), hurt/comfort (if you squint), lots of swearing, parting of the Red Sea (mentioned), ten plagues (mentioned), these tags make the fic seem much more violent than it really is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:41:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26762995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgaine2005/pseuds/morgaine2005
Summary: No one can save everyone. Not even angels. Not even demons. (Well. Except for that one time.) Sometimes, it’s all we can do to save one person and to tell ourselves that whatever else happens, we made a difference for that one person.But sometimes.Sometimes.Sometimes, that one person we save goes on to make the difference for many more people. For good … or for evil.(Or: Crowley, Aziraphale, and the babies they saved.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Take Me Home and Related Tales [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1857055
Comments: 31
Kudos: 23





	1. Nile Starfish

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in the same universe as [Take Me Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24331921/chapters/58666987). Reading that entire 225K+ monster of a fic is not required to understand this one, but reading the first scene is _highly encouraged_. The subtext won't make sense without it. (Also, Chapter 3 takes place after the ending of [Take Me Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24331921/chapters/58666987) and contains minor spoilers for that ending.)
> 
> This fic would not exist in its current form (or at all) without the help of my wonderful friends and betas: [andavri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andavri/pseuds/andavri), [AnnUsual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnUsual/pseuds/AnnUsual), and [Kat_Rowe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kat_Rowe/pseuds/Kat_Rowe). Much love to all the amazing folks at the [Ace Omens](https://discord.com/channels/606085415174144040/606091582122360832) Discord server, too! You are all amazing and I love you.
> 
> Lastly, this fic is all written, and I should post a chapter a day until it's up! (And there are only three chapters, so, that won't take long.)
> 
>  **Chapter Warnings** : This chapter starts with the hiding of Moses. Nothing is graphically described, but if the thought of babies being massacred upsets you, you may want to click away. I won’t judge. There is also a brief description of supernatural torture (again, not graphic) and another brief, non-graphic description of what happens when the Red Sea stops being parted. If the thoughts of reading these things is upsetting to you, see the notes below for details on what to skip.

_Circa 1571 B.C._

_Goshen, Egypt_

And to think, getting out of Canaan had seemed like such a _grand_ idea at the time.

On paper,[1] it all made perfect sense. The descendants of Abraham hadn’t been in Canaan for years. And while that meant there were plenty of opportunities for mischief … well, that was the problem. There were plenty of opportunities for mischief. And somehow, in the course of that mischief, the locals had come to mix up Dagon-the-Lord-of-the-Files with Dagon-the-God-of-Grain, and … to say that Dagon-the-God had _not_ been happy about that would be a massive understatement.

So no one could blame Crawly for wanting to get the Somewhere out of Jericho while the getting was good. Her request to decamp for Egypt had even been granted – by the very lowest levels! Hastur hadn’t liked it much, but Hastur couldn’t very well argue with a mission from Himself, now, could he?

And fine, Crawly technically had a mission – figuring out what the descendants of Jacob (or was it Israel? Crawly could never keep the name straight) had been up to since the one with the gaudy coat had become Pharaoh’s right-hand man. And Crawly would find that out. Probably wouldn’t take long, either, but she’d make the mission last as long as she could. And if during her reconnaissance, she happened to meet up with a certain angel …

Well, she could hardly be blamed for that. It was only natural that they’d run into each other, each seeking out a familiar face when a stranger in a strange land. And surely it had been long enough that they could afford to see each other again. Two hundred and seventy-one years since Moriah, not that Crawly was counting.[2]

These were the thoughts ran through Crawly’s head as she stood on the hill overlooking Goshen, the place where her nose and her sources had told her that the Hebrews were to be found. A mental review had seemed rather necessary at the time. Because when she had plotted how she would get out of Canaan, when she had put in her request for a transfer, when she had trekked through the desert that separated the kingdom along the Nile’s banks from the land of milk and honey …

She hadn’t expected for her arrival to be heralded by the sounds of screaming. Wailing too. And the scent of blood, copper-rich and so thick even the humans could probably smell it—

That was all Crawly had time to think before she was gathering her robes in her fist and running down the hill.

She spilled into the streets of the settlement, and—oh, this was bad, this was _very_ bad. Not quite as bad as a city gone to fire and smoke and/or divine wrath, but close. The streets were narrow and twisting; the mud-huts tiny and pressed close together. Everywhere there were signs of neglect, doors not hung properly, curtains in the tiny windows that hadn’t been washed in ages. And underneath, the smells of fear, exhaustion, despair.

There was only one type of humans that lived like this, and that type was _slaves_.

 _Why in Heaven’s name,_ wondered the part of Crawly’s mind that could wonder things, even as she ducked through the streets and tried to figure out what on earth was causing the screaming, _are the children of Abraham living as SLAVES?_ Maybe she shouldn’t be surprised; these were the Chosen People of the deity whose response to being in a foul mood was to send a flood to wipe out a significant chunk of Her creation. More fool Crawly, expecting _better_ out of Her.

Come to think about it, they were probably gloating about this up in Heaven, weren’t they? All part of the ineffable bloody plan, for sure—well, Crawly would see about _that_ —

She skidded to a halt.

Soldiers!

Soldiers—Egyptian ones—descending on one of the mud-huts—Crawly ducked into an alley before they could see her. If nearly twenty-five hundred years on this mudball had taught her anything, it was that soldiers marching through a settlement where there was screaming and the smell of blood in the air were never a good sign.

The hut the soldiers were converging on wasn’t empty—there was a woman in the doorway, literally _in_ the doorway, arms braced against the doorposts and blocking as much of it with her body as she could. Was she _insane_? She was wasting valuable running-away time—

The woman shouted something at the advancing soldiers; it sounded like begging but Crawly was too far away to catch the words—

The soldiers didn’t care. The lead two grabbed her, shoved her down. She fell to the side and the soldiers swarmed the house.

A thin, high cry pierced the din, hitting Crawly like a punch to the gut. That—there was a _baby_ in there—

And the cry stopped.

Crawly’s heart may have stopped with it.

That—they hadn’t—but why would they—a _baby_? They couldn’t have; Crawly must be misinterpreting—

The blood-stench grew thicker.

The woman, still crumbled in the dust, screamed.

_What. The. Fuck?!?_

“Aaron!”

A small weight collided with the back of Crawly’s legs—she whipped around, a hiss leaping to her throat, eyes becoming yellower and sclera disappearing—

And stopped.

Before her stood a woman. And two children. The elder one, maybe six or seven, a girl, holding a tight-woven reed basket. The younger, barely out of toddlerhood, a boy, his mother’s hand on his shoulder, pulling him back. And in the mother’s other arm—

A small bundle. Wrapped in blankets.

_No. No, no, no, no, no—_

“That the last one?” came a call from behind Crawly, one of the soldiers, only audible because the first woman’s— _mother’s_ —screams had quieted to sobs.

“Still a few houses to check. Come on, the sooner we get Sobek’s dinner, the sooner we get our own!” And because there really was no end to the evil found in the human soul, that remark drew laughter.

Sobek—Crawly knew that name, that was the name of one of the gods in these parts—the _crocodile_ god—

“Please,” came a small, broken voice from in front of her, and Crawly turned back.

It was the mother—the other mother, the one who still had a baby to cradle and two other children to force behind her. “Please,” she said again, “please, my lady—”

“What are you staring at me for?” Crawly hissed, but softly, so the soldiers wouldn’t hear. “ _Go_!”

The mother didn’t need to be told twice. She turned and ran, her children holding onto her robes to keep up.

And Crawly …

Crawly really had no sense of self-preservation, because she spared one glance over her shoulder at the soldiers, shifted into snake-form, and followed. The snake form – especially this larger one she hadn’t trotted out since Eden – could slither faster than she could run. And she’d learned from experience that soldiers tended to dismiss female-shaped beings.[3] But a gigantic snake? _That_ would make anyone think twice about tailing her.

And if they weren’t tailing the snake … then they wouldn’t try to follow the woman or the kids, either.

The little family scurried through the mazelike streets, Crawly doing her best to keep up. She kept her eyes and ears and nose open for trouble, though in this form it was harder. The scents of hunger and exhaustion and despair were so much stronger. If Crawly and the Almighty were still on speaking terms, Crawly would be having words with Her.

They finally reached the outskirts of the city, and if Crawly had had hackles, they would have risen. There was no _cover_ out here – no buildings, no trees, nothing but sand and in the distance, the river—

The river that they were running toward.

In another form Crawly’s eyebrows would have risen; in this one she slithered faster and strained to see what their plan was. Maybe they had a boat? The rushes growing on the banks might be able to conceal one. And a boat—well, it would get them _away_ and clearly _away_ was the place to be right now—

Except—

They weren’t running toward a boat. Not that Crawly could see.

She slithered into the rushes for camouflage and slowly, slowly nosed her way to a good viewing spot.

The woman had knelt on the ground, and the little girl had put the basket in front of her, taking the lid off. The woman cuddled the blanket-wrapped bundle, singing a soft, lullaby-like tune. And she put it in the basket.

_What?_

Still singing, the woman put the lid on the basket, sealing it quickly.

_… What._

And then she picked it back up, waded into the river, and—

_WHAT?!?!?!_

The woman let the basket go, and the river took it.

_ARE. YOU. OUT. OF. YOUR. MIND?!?!_

The river? The _river_? That was this woman’s plan? Drop the baby in the _river_? There were crocodiles in the river! And worse—hippopotami! And Egyptians—the ones killing the babies _on purpose_!

And even as Crawly thought all this—even as every scale on her body trembled with the sheer rage of _what do you think you’re DOING_ —she slipped into the river and swam after the basket.

She didn’t think about it. Didn’t have to. Because the truth was simple. She’d be damned – again – if she just stood by and watched _another_ mother lose her baby.

She caught up to the basket quickly; the river was fast, but Crawly was faster. As soon as her snout touched the basket, she sent a ripple of demonic leave-me-the-fuck-alone energy into the water. That would be enough to keep animals and boats away. And in the unlikely event that her miracles got audited, she could just say that she’d fancied a swim and hadn’t wanted to bother with discorporation-by-crocodile.[4]

And if Sobek or some other Nile deity took issue with it, Crawly would … think of something.

But Sobek must have had better things to do, because no crocodiles pierced Crawly’s little bubble. The basket floated serenely down the river, Crawly behind it, until the smells of blood and despair faded, replaced by the smells of good food, expensive perfume, greed, and pride.

Crawly craned her head just far enough above the basket to get a sense of where she was.

_Well, THIS is interesting …_

A large marble-clad building stood before her, its pillars jutting into the river. Gauzy linen curtains hung between the pillars and floated in the breeze, dipping into the water. And from beyond the curtains came the sounds of soft women’s voices and a child’s laughter.

Crawly cast another glance at the basket.

A wealthy household could be a safe enough place to deposit the baby … perhaps sending a little influence to make sure this baby was raised right, not treated as a slave … and if all else failed, a gigantic snake could burst out of the water, scare the living daylights out of everyone present, and spirit the baby away to safety.

It was as good a plan as any. Crawly pushed the basket toward the pillars and past the curtains. Then she ducked into the shadows to watch, coiled and ready to strike if necessary.

There were three women, two attendants and one _really_ important one if the size of her wig was anything to go by. Wig-lady was in the water, just a few feet away from the steps leading into the river, a toddler perched on her hip. The little one was laughing, a good sign.

The basket floated until it bumped into wig-lady’s thigh. Wig-lady looked down and blinked. Tilting her head to the side, she passed the toddler to one of the attendants and took the lid off the basket.

Crawly coiled, and tensed, and waited.

A small, delighted burble came from the basket – a happy baby, one who might not have had much, but who had always had love and nothing but love.

And wig-lady—

 _Melted_.

Not literally, that would be messy. But her face broke out in a smile; every line of her body relaxed, and when she pulled the baby from the basket, it was with a coo and an immediate nuzzle of the belly. The baby laughed and kicked.

“Look,” she said to her attendants, “it seems the gods have sent us a gift.”

“M-Majesty,” said one of the attendants, “that—that blanket—it looks like—”

“Yes, I’m aware. Pharaoh’s orders were for the Hebrew babes to be thrown into the river. Pharaoh said nothing about what was to happen afterward – and clearly the gods had another fate in mind for this one. So hush,” wig-lady said, and then, to the baby, “No, not you, baby boy. You’re fine. Hmm …” Her fingers danced on the baby’s stomach, eliciting another delighted giggle, and her smile – somehow – grew wider. “What shall we call you? Ah! I know.”

Wig-lady shifted the baby to both hands, lifted him and nuzzled him, nose-to-nose. “Moses. How do you like that name, sweetheart?”

The baby seemed to like it just fine, if the laughing and kicking were any indication, and Crawly …

Crawly let out a breath of relief that she didn’t need, and more pertinently, hadn’t realized she was holding.

The baby would be all right. Whatever—whatever else happened—the baby would be all right.

* * *

“… and after you assign one, let me repeat that, just _one_ angel to the biggest bunch of Abraham’s descendants, you recall him to Heaven just as the midden is about to hit the windmill for—I cannot believe I am about to say this—a _performance review_!” Samael shouted.

“It’s protocol,” Gabriel replied.

“A _performance_. REVIEW!”

“Look, Samael, it’s Earth. Something is always going wrong. If we were to put off performance reviews every time there was a plague or a famine or some kid getting sold into slavery, we’d never get around to them.”

“Oh, so a wholesale massacre of the Chosen People’s infants is all in a day’s work?”

“I didn’t _say_ that—”

Judging that no one was looking at him, Aziraphale took a moment – just a moment – to close his eyes and take a deep breath, trying to ground himself.

He was being quite foolish, of course. He was an angel, in Heaven. Nothing bad could happen to him here. The queasy, miserable feeling in the pit of his stomach was just his corporation acting up – doubtless he’d been eating too much again. The sweat on his palms was—was—well, an archangel was shouting; that was never a good sign. And the way his corporation wanted to breathe quickly, the pounding of its heart … those would go away soon enough. Deep, calming breaths were just the thing to quiet a wayward corporation.

Aziraphale carefully did not consider the _other_ feeling—the heartsick one that made his eyes want to water and the breath want to catch in his throat when he thought of those poor babies and their poor parents. As Sandalphon had helpfully pointed out when Aziraphale had frantically alerted Heaven of the problem[5] – they were only human infants. Human infants were terribly fragile. Many of them would not have seen the end of their first year even without Pharaoh’s intervention.

And the only reason why _that_ thought didn’t also make Aziraphale heartsick was because he wasn’t thinking about it.

“Archangels,” came a cold, clear voice dousing the argument like a wave of water on a fire – Michael. She stood between Gabriel and Samael, in her rightful place as the first of the archangels, the one who had cast Lucifer down. “I think we’ve put this circular argument through its paces one time too many. And we still have more to get through. Uriel, what did you find out from the Earth Observation files? Did any of the infants survive?”

Now Aziraphale looked up, and instantly kicked himself. By rights he shouldn’t still be here; he’d given his report[6] and should have been told to return to his duties. Except, well, Samael had started shouting at Gabriel in the middle of it, and everyone seemed to have forgotten he was still around, so he had never been officially dismissed.

“One did,” Uriel answered. If Aziraphale’s control had been any less, all the archangels would have heard his sharp intake of breath. As it was, he only stifled it by reminding himself he didn’t have to breathe at all. “But … well, have a look.”

Uriel made a complicated gesture with one hand, and an image formed between all of them. It showed a body of water – the Nile, probably – a basket floating on the surface, and behind the basket—

Aziraphale’s corporation forgot that it wasn’t supposed to breathe and gasped.

“ _Crawly_.”

What was Crawly doing in Egypt? They hadn’t seen each other since—since Moriah. Two hundred and seventy-one years ago.[7] Aziraphale had been certain that Crawly had still been in Canaan when he left.

This—this couldn’t be his demonic work, could it? No, surely not. Crawly—Crawly would never countenance the killing of _children_ —

“Er—yes,” Uriel said, drawing Aziraphale out of his reverie. It was a miracle, perhaps literal, that he didn’t visibly startle or jump when she did. “The Serpent of Eden. She was spotted—”

“She?” Sandalphon asked. “I thought the Serpent was male.”

“She switches,” Aziraphale said—and knew that was a mistake as soon as every eye in the room turned to him. “That—that is—she has unfortunately been a, a most wily adversary, _quite_ the thorn in my side, so, I, er, couldn’t help but notice that she tends to go from man-shaped to woman-shaped with—”

“We get it,” Samael interrupted. She turned back to Uriel. “You were saying?”

“Right. As I was saying …” The image began to move, backwards, until it found itself at the Nile banks. A woman was bending over the basket, a baby in her arms, crooning to it. Then she put the baby into the basket and set the basket afloat. From the rushes a black-and-red snake swam out.

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes, trying to understand. Why was Crawly there? Why would she—

_Oh._

_OH._

Aziraphale _knew_ why.

His gaze darted to the assembled archangels, all staring rapt at the moving image. They didn’t know. No, they _couldn’t_ know. They didn’t understand, and they _wouldn’t_ understand, because—because he wouldn’t _let_ them understand.

Even if—even if there hadn’t been any _other_ reasons at play, the archangels weren’t allowed to know that Crawly had a spark of goodness in her, however small, when Crawly refused to acknowledge it herself.

So Aziraphale took a deep breath and tried very hard to think.

“What’s Hell’s game in all of this?” Gabriel asked as they watched the serpent deliver the baby to Pharaoh’s—was that his sister? Daughter? Newest wife?

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.” Uriel waved her hand, and the image disappeared. “We were able to retrace the demon’s steps back to Canaan, but she must have gone to Hell to get her instructions. Or some other place that’s warded against our looking.”

“Well, doesn’t matter,” Sandalphon chuckled. Aziraphale felt a quite un-angelic shiver snake down his spine. “No matter what the plan is, doubt it’ll survive if the kid doesn’t.”

_What??_

“We could smite the whole palace,” Samael said, eyes grim. “Serve Pharaoh right.”

 _No, no, no, no—_ they couldn’t kill this child. Not when _Crawly_ had saved it. Not when the baby meant so much to Crawly.

So Aziraphale thought, and reached, and grasped, until somehow—he had it. He hoped.

“But what—what about the deliverer?” he asked.

By the surprised looks the archangels turned to him, it was clear they’d once again forgotten Aziraphale was still there. “Deliverer? What deliverer?” Uriel asked.

“The—the one who’s to be sent to free the Hebrews from bondage,” Aziraphale stammered. “To lead them back into Canaan. All the humans already know about him!”

 _That_ wasn’t precisely true. Oh, the humans _talked_ about a deliverer; they _yearned_ for a deliverer; they _prayed_ for a deliverer; but they didn’t _know_ there would be a deliverer. But with luck … the tiniest bit of luck … the archangels would believe that perhaps there was something that the Almighty had shared with the humans that She hadn’t shared with them. After all—

The archangels were looking sidelong at each other, brief flashes of nervousness on every face. If it weren’t wicked and sinful, Aziraphale might have allowed himself a brief burst of pride at that result.

But he still had convincing to do. “And—and when you think about it—this is the sort of thing that would make sense, wouldn’t it? A—a child, delivered from certain death, who will grow up to—to deliver his people out of slavery. It’s quite Her style, don’t you think?”

Now the archangels were shooting another set of glances at each other, these ones speculative, knowing. They were almost there—but Aziraphale couldn’t push.

“Of course,” he said, throwing in as much humility as he could manage, “I—I could be very wrong. It’s all part of the Ineffable Plan, and one mustn’t—”

“What you say makes a certain amount of sense, Principality,” Michael interrupted.

“But a _demon_?” asked Sandalphon, face contorted in disgust. “A _demon_ saves the kid?”

“But—but—but—isn’t that the beauty of it?” Aziraphale stammered. “The—the Lord moves in mysterious ways; we _all_ know that. And—and as for a demon—well—we didn’t know about Job until afterward, either!”

Uriel winced, and the bottom dropped out of Aziraphale’s stomach. Maybe—maybe that was wrong; maybe he shouldn’t have said that; Job was a _bit_ of a sore spot among the archangels who hadn’t learned about that little bet until after the Almighty had collected Her winnings—

“Before we make any final decisions, we should gather more intelligence. Uriel? Would you mind going back to Earth Observation and seeing what you can find? It’s possible that more about the demon’s motives might come up with a deeper search,” Michael said.

“Of course,” Uriel replied with a serene nod. She left, presumably back to Earth Observation – and Aziraphale told himself, quite strenuously, that he wasn’t to worry over what she might find, because he hadn’t seen Crawly in over two hundred years, and—well.

“And we should consult the Metatron and confirm that this is the Almighty’s plan,” Michael continued. “Sandalphon, if you would …?”

Sandalphon nodded once and hurried away, nearly bowling Aziraphale over as he made his exit.

And now Aziraphale had to fight down panic, because—because if the Almighty _did_ give a clear answer, then—then—

 _Oh Lord,_ he caught himself praying, _please, please don’t—whatever You do, whatever You say, please don’t bring the child into it—he’s just a baby, and—and this isn’t about me; I understand You won’t talk to me because You’re still upset about the sword and the ram and all the rest of it, but Crawly—she saved this child; please, let the child stay saved—_

“And I … need to send a message,” Michael concluded, for some reason not meeting anyone’s eyes as she said it. “I trust you two can handle preliminary preparations from here?” she asked Gabriel and Samael.

“Of course,” Gabriel said, and Samael nodded.

With that, Michael nodded once and took her leave of them. Leaving Aziraphale alone with Gabriel and Samael. Not that that was a cause for alarm, of course not!

Gabriel turned to Aziraphale with a tight smile, and the stomach of Aziraphale’s corporation had absolutely no business dropping the way it did. “Well, buddy,” he said with a long-suffering sigh, “I think, in light of this debacle, we really ought to have another chat about your performance, don’t you? I think some of those reports you sent before this all went down could have been a little clearer.”

Aziraphale blinked once, but—of course. If his reports had been clearer … all those children might still be alive … He swallowed once, and nodded, and tried to smile, because there was no reason to feel so crushed over what was merely going to be a well-earned reprimand and some gentle suggestions about how to do better in the future. “Certainly, Gabriel. Shall we—”

“Oh, _HELL_ no, you don’t!” Samael said. “You’re not distracting the _one_ set of eyes you put on the ground with bloody _performance issues_ when _I_ need intelligence. Principality!”

Aziraphale jumped and stood at attention, ignoring how the sudden movement made his old war wound ache. “Y-yes, ma’am!”

“You’re coming with me,” she said, grabbing him by the arm and all-but-dragging him off. “I need to know _everything_ you know about the Egyptians, got that? Their gods, their customs, how the kingdom runs—even their bloody mealtimes. _Everything_ , understand?”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“Good.” Samael continued to march him off, eyes locked on the middle distance and a storm in every step. “The Egyptians,” she said in a low, menacing tone, “are going to _pay_ for what they did.”

And Aziraphale could only nod, but as he did so, he sent one last desperate plea to an Almighty who might or might not have been listening.

_Please, Lord, whatever happens – whatever Samael plans – whatever Uriel and Sandalphon find out – please, just keep the child safe._

_For Crawly._

* * *

All in all, Crawly was fairly pleased with how Operation: Save the Baby had gone down. As soon as wig-lady had taken the little one into the palace, Crawly had spotted the baby’s sister lurking just outside the curtains, watching. And while wig-lady browbeat the Pharaoh into letting her keep the little mite, Crawly had hatched a cunning plan that led to the baby’s actual mother serving as his wet-nurse. So that was the baby sorted.

And Crawly? Crawly had gotten herself a plum set of rooms at the palace and a terribly important if conveniently vague position as a diplomat from Canaan. She might have been the wrong gender for diplomacy, but miraculously, no one had noticed that.

Now all she had to do was sit back, lie (relatively) low, keep an eye on the baby, figure out what on earth was going on with the Hebrews, and maybe … in her spare time … seek out a certain angel.

With such an agreeable vista on the horizon, it really shouldn’t have surprised Crawly that everything swiftly went pear-shaped.

She was in the marketplace, sizing up a lovely snake-themed bangle and trying to decide if she deserved a treat[8] when a very distinctive scent hit her nostrils like a club to the solar plexus. The hair on the back of her neck barely had time to stand up before a low voice said in her ear, “Hullo, Crawly.”

 _Oh, fuck me sideways._ She hadn’t smelled _that_. But still, she turned to the voice, careful smirk firmly in place. “Duke Ligur. What an unpleasant surprise.”

“Innit?” Ligur grinned, and that smile did things to her stomach that made her glad she didn’t make a habit of eating. “His Lowliness is requesting an audience.”

“By which we mean, His Lowliness is ordering you to get your arse back down to Hell.” And _there_ was the source of the stench—Hastur, on Crawly’s other side.

“Is that so?” Crawly said, trying to take a step back so she could keep an eye on both of them at the same time. “Well, just tell me where and when, and I’ll be sure to—”

“Lowest Throne,” said Hastur.

“And _now_ ,” said Ligur.

And with that, both of them grabbed her arms and forced her _down_.

It took every ounce of self-control Crawly possessed not to kick and scream as she was shoved into the ground and _through_ it. Hastur and Ligur dragged her through the boundary between planes, past the point where Earth ended and Hell began. Down, and down, and _down_ they went, until they crashed through the ceiling of Hell, a shower of sand falling around them.

Crawly ended up – somehow – on her hands and knees, coughing and sputtering even though she thought she had turned off breathing the second she was up to her knees in dirt. Meanwhile, Hastur and Ligur had landed on their feet, bless them. Ligur was dusting his hands off so that every last grain of sand landed on Crawly’s back. “Got the snake for you, sir.”

“Yes. I see that,” a voice rumbled – and _then_ the depth of Crawly’s predicament caught up to her.

_Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit oh SHIT!_

_Satan_ wanted to see her. In the _Lowest Throne_. Which meant she was, to put it charitably, _utterly fucked_.

_SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!_

Crawly dared one swift glance up. First there was Dagon, to the right hand of the throne – Beelzebub on the left hand – and on the throne itself, a massive male-shaped being with black hair, a black beard, and dark blue skin with white pinpricks like stars picked out on it. Lucifer, the Light-Bringer, darkened. He had no wings (for the moment), and his only concession to modesty was a loincloth.[9]

Satan Himself.

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!_

At the moment, by some miracle, he wasn’t looking at Crawly. Instead, he was looking at the ceiling, still leaking sand. With a sigh, he snapped his fingers, closing the hole.

 _Then_ he looked at Crawly.

Crawly’s gaze snapped to the ground, and she stayed on her hands and knees. “Y-Your Lowliness,” she said (stammered). “To what do I owe this—displeasure?”

A sudden weight collided with Crawly’s side—Hastur’s foot—Crawly swallowed her cry. “You’ll speak when you’re spoken to, snake!”

“Hastur.” Satan’s voice carried only the lightest of reproofs, but it was enough to freeze every drop of blood in Crawly’s body – and _she_ wasn’t even the one being reprimanded. “Please remember that you are not to assault the lesser demons in my presence until and unless I tell you do to so. Have I told you to do so?”

“She—she was sassing you, Your Lowliness—”

“Have I. Told you. To do so?”

“No, Your Lowliness.”

“Then step out of assaulting range.”

Hastur shuffled away. Crawly didn’t look up.

“Now. Crawly. To answer your question. We’ve heard some … troubling reports. Ligur? If you would?”

“It would be my greatest dishonor, sir. Crawly, you are hereby accused—”

“She is not _accused_ of anything—yet—we’ve merely heard reports. Ligur, the substance of those reports, _if_ you please.”

Crawly didn’t move. Didn’t react. Just stared at the blood-red stone that made up the floor and forced herself to breathe.

“As—as you will, Your Lowliness. Crawly—we’ve had reports that you’ve been acting under orders of the Almighty.”

Whatever Crawly had been expecting—it hadn’t been _that_.

“ _What_?” Crawly shouted, looking up.

“Yes, that was rather what I thought,” Satan replied. “Ligur, please continue.”

“We have reports that you saved the deliverer of the Hebrew people from certain death and, uh, delivered him to Pharaoh’s palace. That, needless to say, is the sort of thing that comes with a sentence of extinction—”

“Ligur, enough,” Satan said—and though he didn’t raise his voice one iota, somehow, he managed to drown out every other sound. “Crawly. Is this true?”

Crawly didn’t answer. She had to—she had figure a way out of this; she had to _think_ ; she had to—

“Crawly,” said Satan in a tone that made it quite clear that Crawly would regret it if he had to say her name a third time.

“And don’t even think of lying, snake,” Ligur said, “or His Lowliness will—”

And she had it.

“Hard to lie, isn’t it, when you’re not really sure what the truth is,” she said, looking up – but at Ligur, not at the throne and the being on it. “I _did_ keep a kid alive, sure, brought him to Pharaoh’s palace, even—but this is the first I’m hearing of a ‘deliverer,’ so, maybe you have the wrong kid …?”

“So you don’t deny that you did preserve a child?” Satan asked.

“Nope,” Crawly said, popping the final p with a desperate bravado she didn’t in any way feel.

“And why would you do such a thing?” Dagon asked.

“Not very demonic, izzz it?” asked Beelzebub.

Oh, great, just great, now she was being tag-teamed. “Well,” Crawly said, drawling out every syllable to give herself more time to think, “the way I saw it—keeping the kid alive was a no-lose situation for us.”

For a second – a precious second that could be filled with _many_ thoughts – there was silence.

Then the voice from the throne said, slowly, “Explain.”

“Gladly,” Crawly said, and that wasn’t—entirely—a lie. “So, you have to understand, I roll into town, barely shake the dust off m’sandals, and the first thing I see is a bunch of babies being slaughtered. Now, obviously _we’re_ not behind it, or else _I_ wouldn’t have been sent to Egypt to do some fact-finding, so one of two things is going on here. One, Heaven’s behind it. Two, Heaven _isn’t_ behind it, but Heaven either doesn’t have the power or doesn’t care enough to stop it. So, we save one kid, and—well, either we’re going directly against Heaven’s will, _always_ a bad thing that we ought to be doing, _or_ we’re doing what Heaven couldn’t.

“And that’s just the beginning, just now. Let’s skip ahead, oh, thirty, forty years, shall we? What we have, on our side, is a genuine prince of Egypt, right? And princes, generally, know all kinds of useful things, like, let’s say, how to give a speech, how to work the levers of power, how to lead an army … you see where I’m going with this? We play our cards right, and _we’re_ the ones who get the Hebrews out of Egypt and back into Canaan. Which, to me, sounds like the little covenant You-Know-Who had with Abraham can get thrown in the dung heap. Because what’s the _point_ of a covenant like that if the other party can’t deliver when it counts?”

“So you’re saying that we’d replace the covenant God had with Abraham with a covenant of our own with the sons of Israel,” Satan said, leaning back in his throne and steepling his fingers before him.

Crawly reviewed what she’d said and replied, “Basically, yeah,” hoping those words wouldn’t be her last.

“Interesting,” Satan answered. His face was inscrutable, although a quick glance around the room showed that Hastur was squinting his way through the logic, Ligur was scowling, Beelzebub was sneering, and Dagon looked reluctantly impressed. “So that’s how we win. But tell me, Crawly—how do we _not lose_?”

“Ah. Well, I’m glad you asked that,” Crawly lied to give herself a few precious seconds to figure out what should come next. “That, that idea I just laid out? That’s plan—Plan Alef, let’s say. Now, Plan Bet—we still have ourselves a genuine prince of Egypt, but he’s not terribly keen to lead a slave revolt and destabilize his country’s economy. That’s fine, we can work with that. All we have to do is insinuate ourselves into the Hebrews and say, see that kid? _That’s_ the arsehole Upstairs chose to be your deliverer. Bit shit, ain’t he? Now you _could_ stick with him and see what happens … or you could side with us … basically, we could end up with a new covenant that way, or, if that doesn’t work out, we keep picking up souls along the margins, pad our numbers and keep them away from Heaven and the Egyptians. So, call that Plan Bet and Plan Gimel, depending on how things work out.

“Now that brings us to Plan Dalet, which, I will grant you, is not much of a victory for our side, no indeed. Plan Dalet, well, Heaven gets its act together, decides to make use of the kid that _I_ went and delivered for them, thank you very much, turns that kid into the deliverer of Egypt, probably with some song and dance number and, I don’t know, some smiting of the Egyptians. Which, hey, never ideal when Heaven goes on a smiting spree, but better the Egyptians than us, right? And speaking of better … Plan Dalet, for all that we don’t _win_ much, is still better than Plan He, which goes as follows.”

Now Crawly looked up, now she knelt back instead of cowering on the ground, now she dared to really _look_ at her audience and force them to hear what she said.

“Plan He: we do fuck-all. The Hebrews, not being utterly stupid, give us all up as a bad job – Heaven, Hell, _all_ of us – and throw in their lot with the Egyptian gods, who might actually be paying attention to them. And the biggest group of Abraham’s descendants? Like that,” she snapped her fingers, “they don’t belong to us anymore. And sure, there’s the other two groups of descendants – the ones from, uh, the first one, the slave’s kid, and the other one, the elder twin, the goat-man – but there aren’t as many of them, they’re a bit intermarried, and what happens if _they_ go poof? Specifically, what happens to _us_?”

As Crawly had hoped, none of them had an answer to that.

She didn’t smile. She knew better. “So, yeah,” she said, “like I said – saving the kid, for us? No-lose situation. The only way to lose is not to play. So I played. You’re welcome.”

It was only when the last two words tripped from her mouth that she realized that they might have been the wrong things to say.

Not that Satan reacted. Dagon breathed in sharply; Beelzebub’s eyes went wide; Ligur chuckled; Hastur _grinned_. But Satan? Didn’t blink.

“Indeed. Your logic is, as always, impeccable, Crawly. And your imagination … unique. Unfortunately, given the interest Heaven has now – or always had – in the child, it seems likely that we will be forced to stick with Plan Dalet. But, I’m sure there will be plenty of opportunities for further improvisation, and perhaps even an actual victory, down the line. So, badly done, Crawly.”

A stupider Crawly might have sighed with relief. But a stupider Crawly would have been dead a long time ago, so this Crawly kept her mouth shut.

“And with that being said … I do believe we are done here. Dismissed,” Satan said, waving a hand.

“But, sir—” Hastur began.

“I _said_ , DISMISSED!”

And like that—everyone was dismissed.

Except Satan.

And Crawly.

Crawly didn’t dare to breathe.

But Satan didn’t seem inclined to do anything. Not right away. No, have to draw it out first. Until he sighed. “Crawly, Crawly, Crawly … what am I to do with you?”

Crawly spent so long trying to figure out if she had better odds leaving this encounter alive by answering him or staying silent that Satan ran out of patience and kept speaking.

“I won’t deny, your actions with the young deliverer were … I suppose they were the only thing you could do at the time. But all the same, they’ve put me in quite the difficult position with Heaven. Because now those archangels seem to have the idea that we answer to _them_. Doing _their_ bidding. Cleaning up _their_ messes. And that … that just won’t do.”

Satan went silent, gaze mutely inquiring, an invitation for Crawly to plead her case. But even if Crawly had had words to say, she couldn’t have said them if someone had threatened to dump a pitcher of Holy Water on her as a penalty for staying silent.

Satan sighed. “Crawly … oh. I suppose I _can_ still call you Crawly? You wouldn’t prefer I revert to an earlier name?”

“It’s Crawly!” Crawly shouted before she could stop herself, because what Satan was threatening was—was—“It’s Crawly, Crawly! Always Crawly!”

“Oh, _good_. I’d hate to see my clever, inventive Crawly revert to being that silly little angel who only knew how to ask questions, not to answer them. But, Crawly … don’t forget one thing.”

He rose, descended the obsidian steps that led to the throne, and stood in front of Crawly, hands on hips. “That silly little angel who only knew how to ask questions? They Fell, Crawly. And when they did— _I_ caught them. _I_ turned that broken-winged creature into my clever Crawly. _My_ clever Crawly. _Mine_.”

“Y-y-yes, s-s-sir—”

“And _my_ clever Crawly knows better than to do anything that could _ever_ be construed as being in league with Heaven, or any of Heaven’s angels, because if she didn’t …”

Satan—

What Satan did next was not the sort of thing that could be described using words in any human language. If Crawly were forced to explain by, say, someone threatening to upend a pitcher of Holy Water on her head if she didn’t, she might say that what Satan did was put her soul into a vise and _squeezed_. Squeezed until her insides became her outsides, until she was a breath away from popping like a crushed grape, until there was nothing left but sick and ooze and pain.

So.

Much.

Pain.

What Satan did wasn’t anything like that, of course. But if that was what he had done, Crawly probably would have ended it in a heap at Satan’s feet, throat raw from screaming in a register no human could hear, eyes dry from crying enough tears to flood the Nile, breath coming in pants from too long spent not being able to breathe at all.

Since that was exactly how Crawly ended up after Satan did—what he did, Crawly would say, had she been asked, that the description was close enough.

And somehow, despite the eons Satan had spent doing _that_ , he hadn’t forgotten what he’d been saying to her. “Well. If she didn’t …” He bent and stroked the snake tattoo by her ear; Crawley tried not to whimper. “She wouldn’t be _my_ clever Crawly, now, would she?”

Crawly shut her eyes.

“But enough of that.” Satan’s loincloth rustled as he straightened; his bare feet padded toward the door. “You won’t be allowed near the child now that Heaven’s taken an interest in it, but I still need a pair of eyes on the ground. You’re to report back to the surface as soon as you’re able. Hurry, now. The game is, as they say, afoot.”

And Satan left. Leaving Crawly a crumpled heap on the blood-red floor.

But the first thing she thought – when she was capable of linear thought again – wasn’t about Satan, or her pain, or even her mission.

It was about the child.

_Well … at least Heaven and Hell both want the kid alive now …_

* * *

_Circa 1491 B.C._

_Sinai Peninsula_

When Lot and his family fled Sodom, they were commanded not to look back, but Lot’s wife disobeyed and was turned into a pillar of salt. When the Hebrews fled Egypt, running between the walls of water that held back the Red Sea, no one commanded them not to look back. There was no need. The Hebrews had freedom ahead, slavery behind, so why would they look back?

Aziraphale, though.

Aziraphale had spent too many long years in Egypt not to look back.

So he did. And he saw the walls of water crash down on Pharaoh’s army. Heard the screams of the horses, the groan and crack of splintering wood, the shouts of terrified men. Saw the flotsam and jetsam rise to the surface and tried not to be heartsick over the fates of so many more Egyptians who, while not precisely _innocent_ , had certainly not earned _this_ treatment on top of everything else.

But that was not all he saw.

He saw a woman standing on the banks of the sea, as still as Lot’s wife after that fateful transformation. But she was no salt pillar. Her black robes fluttered in the breeze coming off the water, and somehow Aziraphale knew who she was even before the wind teased a red curl loose and began to play with it.

“Crawly,” he breathed. And of their own volition, his feet picked their way down the sandy shore and past the last of the fleeing Hebrews, so he could stand by her side.

He hadn’t seen her since Moriah. Even though he’d known she was in Egypt, he hadn’t dared to seek her out. Heaven already had their eye on her after her role in delivering Moses to Pharaoh’s palace. He couldn’t—he couldn’t bear to put her at any greater risk.

But now? Now, he supposed, was safe enough. The Hebrews were marching toward their great destiny – surely no one would notice one angel and one demon tarrying just a little bit behind.

She didn’t say anything, not at first, and Aziraphale didn’t know what to say either. But finally she turned to him. The wind caught her veil and covered half her face with it, but not so much that Aziraphale couldn’t see the hint of a tear track under one eye.

“Crawly—” he said, and his hand moved toward her of its own accord.

She turned away.

Aziraphale’s hand dropped to his side.

“So,” she said finally, her voice as clear and steady as if he hadn’t just spotted her crying. “I suppose this was all part of the Great Plan? Not just this,” she gestured to the tossing waves of the Red Sea and the remains of Pharaoh’s army scattered on the surface and swallowed by the deep, “but the river of blood, plague of locusts, boils, all the rest of it?”

Aziraphale knew he ought to announce that it was, that as an angel, it was his duty to endorse the Great Plan at every turn and see that it came to pass. Unfortunately, he had spent far too long telling Samael everything he knew about the Egyptians – and being briefed on what was to come, so he could prepare the Hebrews – to not know exactly where this plan, in all of its gory detail, came from. “Well—it was someone’s plan.”

Both of Crawly’s eyebrows rose, but she didn’t press for more details. “I suppose, as far as Heaven’s concerned, that the Egyptians had it coming.”

“Well, you have to admit, my dear, that—that incident would hardly endear the Egyptians to, er, _anyone_ Upstairs—”

“All the Egyptians who did _that_ are _long_ dead,” Crowley fired back. “It’s been eighty _yearsss_ , angel; why should their great-grandchildren have to sssuffer for what they did? And if what happened to those kidssss is ssssuch a crime in Heaven’s eyessss, why didn’t they _ssssstop_ it?”

Aziraphale really should have had better control of himself, because try though he might, some small part of the flinch slipped through.

It was enough for Crawly to notice, and the fight left her like air from a popped balloon. “Angel?” One of her hands came up, hovering, almost touching his shoulder; Aziraphale watched it, wondering if he dared to hope—

The hand dropped back to her side. Aziraphale told himself he had absolutely no business being disappointed, so whatever that distinctly unpleasant feeling churning through his gut was, it _wasn’t_ that.

So he wrung his hands together and stared at the waves and the smashed-up chariots bobbing on the surface. “I’m—I’m sure there were—other priorities.”

He was half-hoping, half-dreading that Crawly would ask, _Like what?_ Half-dreading because, well, a question like that deserved an answer, and somehow Aziraphale had never managed to ferret one out for himself. And half-hoping, because … because …

He really shouldn’t be hoping at all.

Still, he wasn’t nearly relieved enough when Crawly didn’t ask. Instead, she said, “I suppose Water Boy’s,” she nodded her head back in an offhand gesture to Moses, presumably, “mother’s plan to keep him alive came from your lot, then?”

“W-what?” Aziraphale asked, as startled by the change of subject as he was by the question.

“Oh, come on,” Crawly laughed. “Stick the baby in a basket and float it down the river? It’s exactly the sort of daft thing your Head Office would suggest to the poor woman in a dream.”

“We didn’t—that is, as far as I know—it wasn’t our idea. And it wasn’t _daft_ ,” Aziraphale protested.

Crawly’s eyebrows rose, mocking. “Then what was it?”

 _Desperate,_ Aziraphale thought, _terrified, absolutely out of ideas, seizing on the first likely chance and_ praying _—_

But he couldn’t say that, not out loud, not where someone might hear. So he grabbed the first halfway plausible adjective he could find. “Faithful.”

Crawly blinked. Slowly enough for Aziraphale to remark it. And then she did it again, to make damn sure he saw. “ _Faithful_.”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale replied, stung. “I mean—her plan was—well—it certainly wasn’t foolproof, but she hoped, and presumably prayed, that it would all work out for the best, and—well, it did. I mean, you were—”

And here Aziraphale had to stop, because Crawly was not listening anymore. Her hands had clenched into fists at her sides, and she was staring at Aziraphale and taking short, panting breaths.

“Ssso let me get thisss ssstraight,” she said. “You think it’sss perfectly _fine_ to put a baby in a basssket and float it down the river, as long as you _hope_ and _pray_ that it all turnsss out all right.”

“Well, it did, didn’t it?” Aziraphale said mildly, not sure why Crawly was so upset.

“ _You—_ ” Crawly started—and without another word, turned, flipped the trailing ends of her veil over her shoulder, and stomped up the hill.

“Well, _really_ ,” Aziraphale said to her retreating back – though not loudly enough that she might hear. “What’s gotten into—”

Then he gasped. Because he _knew_ what had gotten into her.

And still standing on the shore, all he could do was watch her stomp away.

There was no way to tell her that what she feared wasn’t true. That though Aziraphale might be every bit as daft as Moses’s poor mother …

At the end of the day? He just didn’t have that kind of faith.

* * *

[1] Or clay tablets, technically, since paper hadn’t been invented yet.

[2] Crawly was definitely counting.

[3] Unless, of course, they were thinking with the brain they kept between their legs.

[4] Or hippopotamus – which would be much more likely and infinitely more embarrassing.

[5] After he got back to Earth and found what Pharaoh’s soldiers had done to Goshen and, God help them, those poor babies.

[6] Or at least, all of it that the archangels were likely to be interested in hearing.

[7] Not that Aziraphale was counting, because he most certainly was not.

[8] She did.

[9] And Crawly was grateful. Really. She was no prude, but she _really_ didn’t want to know what was under that loincloth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tags to Mind**
> 
> **Baby Death** : Honestly, this concept permeates the entire first scene. But the worst part is when Egyptian soldiers burst into one of the Hebrews' homes and ... does what they came into Goshen to do. You don't see anything graphic, but if the thought of reading it upsets you, you'll want to skip starting at, "The hut the soldiers were converging on wasn’t empty" and start reading again at "Aaron!"
> 
>  **Supernatural Violence** : Even though Satan lets Crawly get away with saving Moses, he is Not Pleased by it, so he makes her hurt. Very bad. If the thought of reading this upsets you, you'll want to skip starting at "What Satan did next" and pick back up again at "What Satan did wasn't anything like that."
> 
>  **Parting of the Red Sea (mentioned)** : We see what happens when the Red Sea gets un-parted. Not graphic (it's only a paragraph), but you'll want to skip starting at "So he did" (in the fourth scene) and start up again at "But that was not all he saw."
> 
>  **Ten Plagues (mentioned)** : This really is just an offhand mention in Crawly's dialogue. But if you want to skip it, you'll want to stop reading at "I suppose this was all part of the Great Plan?" and start up again at "Aziraphale knew he ought to announce that it was."
> 
> If you think that there is anything else I should have mentioned or tagged for, _please_ let me know. This fic was quite heavy at times, and I could have easily missed something that ought to be a tag.
> 
> **Chapter & Fic Inspiration**
> 
> I would not have gotten the idea for this fic at all without [Whiteley Foster's](https://whiteleyfoster.tumblr.com/) beautiful [Prince of Omens](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21848095/chapters/52140880). (Although this fic went in a different enough direction that I don't think it makes sense to use the "inspired by" feature.) If you haven't read it yet, what are you doing with your life?


	2. Channel Starfish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The son shall not bear the iniquity of the father - or so Aziraphale believes. Has to believe. And tries to ensure.
> 
> Unfortunately, since this is the Arthurian legend Aziraphale is meddling in, things go pear-shaped rather quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have ourselves a **mind the tags** chapter here, folks. Which tags you should mind (and how to avoid them) are in the end notes. Also, if you aren't terribly familiar with the Arthurian legend, you might still want to check out the end notes, because I have some explanatory stuff in there that might make the rest of the chapter make more sense.

_Circa 537 A.D._

_Kingdom of Wessex_

As Aziraphale crept closer to the edge of the cliff, the better to observe the beach below, it occurred to him that this was perhaps not the wisest thing he had ever done.

But what choice did he have? Gabriel had forbidden him from using miracles on this mission. He had claimed that Aziraphale’s pet project of the Table Round was consuming far too many Heavenly resources as it was.[1] And he had also pointed out, not incorrectly, that Aziraphale had only been posted to this desolate backwater kingdom to keep it from sliding back into paganism once the legions left. Having Arthur installed as a Christian king and keeping the populace Christian was all well and good, but Arthur was just one king. There would be others. There was no need to protect this one from the consequences of his own misdeeds, be they temporal or eternal.

Except … Gabriel hadn’t quite understood what it was Aziraphale was trying to do. Or really, Aziraphale hadn’t explained it to him well enough.

Arthur wasn’t the one Aziraphale was trying to save.

The babies in the little boat, however …

Aziraphale steeled himself and watched as the king loaded the infants onto the boat. Somehow, even though they all understood the purpose of this exercise, the king held the little ones correctly, supported the heads, and laid them down gently. It was times like this that Aziraphale despaired of ever understanding humans.

He held himself still – he couldn’t afford to be seen, not when he’d kicked up such a fuss at the idea of this plan. Besides pointing out the obvious – _You can’t kill dozens of babies to try to cover up your sin, Your Majesty, how can you call yourself a good king and do something like that?_ – he’d tried arguing with logic. He’d brought forth example after example of kings and noblemen who had sought to forestall fate with a dash of infant slaughter and had only seen fate come at them that much harder. He’d almost thought he’d had the boy-king convinced, too; Arthur’s brow had furrowed, and he’d seemed to be screwing up the courage to defy his council.

But then Sir Ulfius had spoken. _“Those are all very pretty stories, Sir Aziraphale, but even supposing that every one of them is true – do men tell these stories because they are commonplace and expected? Or do men tell them because they are unexpected, so to entertain their fellows with tales of marvels?_ ”

Aziraphale really shouldn’t think such things of any human, let alone his fellow knight of the Table Round, but part of him _truly_ hoped that Sir Ulfius burned in Hell for that.

So Aziraphale’s powers of persuasion had failed him yet again. And convincing Gabriel hadn’t gone any better. And the one other person he might think to possibly ask for help—

He couldn’t. Even if—if asking a _demon_ to lend a hand on a delicate, virtuous mission like this didn’t go against everything Aziraphale ought to be as an angel, he couldn’t very well go asking Crowley for help _now_. Now when he’d turned him down so very decisively not three months ago. Crowley would have every right to laugh at him and slam the door in his face if Aziraphale showed up requesting aid now.

So he would do this alone. Without miracles, because he’d been ordered not to use any. Even if Gabriel thought it was a waste of time, and the knights of Arthur’s council thought it was too great a risk, and Crowley thought … well, Crowley, as long as he was not being asked to go out in the damp and help, probably would think Aziraphale was doing the right thing. Even—even _before_ , Crowley’s thoughts on harming children had been quite definite.

And now …

But Aziraphale wasn’t going to think about that, because thinking about _that_ was skirting far too close to thinking about the _real_ reason that he had to help, had to save these children. _The son shall not bear the iniquity of the father_ – those words had to mean something, never mind how many times they were contradicted in all the texts that humans had collected and translated.[2]

It was not right that Arthur’s son (and far too many other babies besides) should bear the punishment for the sin that went into his making. And so Aziraphale would ensure that he did not.

The last of the babies had been loaded on the boat. The tide was going out, though it fought with the wind, sending larger and larger waves crashing onto the shore. Arthur pushed the boat from the sea strand into the waves, following it until the water took it and bore it out toward the deep.

Arthur stood knee-deep in the sea and watched it go. Aziraphale was too far away to see a hint of an expression or even more than a smidge of posture, and to be quite truthful, he didn’t care. He only watched because he had to, because he had to be certain that Arthur and his knights were gone before he made his move. No miracles meant he couldn’t use any of his usual tricks to ensure that humans didn’t notice him doing something he really shouldn’t be able to do.

But would the man _hurry up_ already? Aziraphale cast a glance at the far horizon; the look of the clouds on it worried him. And he could pick up a change in air pressure, the tang of rain on the breeze. A storm was coming, and if Arthur and his knights just _stood_ there, Aziraphale would have a devil of a time getting to the boat before the storm did.

Finally, _finally_ , Arthur turned from the sea; _finally_ he walked back to his horse and mounted. Yet his knights chose to take half an age to mount, all while the boat was swiftly sailing toward the horizon—

Finally the little party turned their horses’ heads for home. Aziraphale waited on the cliff’s edge only long enough to be sure they were really going. Then he took several steps back, brought his wings out, ran forward, and jumped.

After all, he was an angel. Flying hardly counted as a miracle, right?

His wings protested at the sudden work – it had been _so_ long since he had a chance to exercise them properly – but they bore him up, and Aziraphale was able to set his sights on the little boat, fast turning into a speck in the far distance. Aziraphale took a deep breath and put on a burst of speed. He could and he _would_ beat the tide, miracles or no miracles, no matter how little his wings liked it.

The tide was one thing. The tide, ineffectual though it might be, was going away from Aziraphale. And Aziraphale could be faster than the tide.

The storm, though.

The storm was coming _toward_ Aziraphale.

And the boat was between Aziraphale and it, though not for long. Aziraphale watched the boat sail right into the path of the clouds until it was all-but-swallowed by the mist.

He put on a burst of speed and followed.

Flying into the storm was like flying under a waterfall – one minute Aziraphale was dry, the next drenched, wings stuttering under the sudden weight of water. He kept going. The boat was in sight now, bounced from wave to wave, and—

Oh, Lord help him, he could hear the babies crying—

That sound gave him the spur he needed to put on a final burst of speed and all-but-slam into the boat.

The boat had a mast, of sorts; Aziraphale grabbed it and lowered himself down, gently, to not hurt any of the little ones. Their screaming was louder than the howl of the wind and the lash of the rain. “Hush, hush,” Aziraphale said, sending a bit of—not a _miracle_ , surely, just a little Heavenly influence into the words. It worked, sort of; the babies quieted.

For now.

The boat tossed so violently that Aziraphale had to hold tight to the mast to keep from being swept off. He stared around him. There had to be a rudder, or some oars, or—or— _something_ to help him steer this thing back toward land and—

There wasn’t.

There was nothing on the boat but Aziraphale, the babies, and the useless makeshift mast.

Aziraphale’s heart began to hammer in his chest, and he couldn’t even work up the nerve to tell it to stop such unseemly behavior.

He looked at the mast. Could he—could he just pick the boat up and fly off with it? It would be heavy, yes; it would _hurt_ , yes; but if he just grabbed it and got it out of the storm, then he could bring it back down in the water and—and try to use the mast to steer it once he was there. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was something—

Aziraphale took hold of the mast in both hands and pulled—but the mast was coated in rain; he couldn’t get a grip.

And he couldn’t use miracles—

A sudden wave leapt up and tossed the boat into the air; Aziraphale clung to the mast for dear life—

The boat landed with a _thud_ that set every plank of wood in it creaking; the babies shrieked, and Aziraphale had no idea how none of them were tossed overboard—maybe he _had_ used a miracle without thinking—

He rubbed his eyes and looked up—

_Oh. No._

A wall of water like he hadn’t seen since Egypt barreled toward them.

There was no way to avoid it. There was no way, short of a miracle, that the boat would survive it. And he couldn’t use miracles; if he used a miracle to get them all out of this and Heaven objected, he couldn’t bear to think what would happen to the babies he’d tried to save—

The wave came closer, and Aziraphale could only watch—

Until he couldn’t. Until he somehow, without consciously deciding to do so, grabbed the baby closest to him and took to the air.

The spray of the whitecap just grazed his toes, but it didn’t pull him down. Up he flew, and up, and up, until the splintering of wood and the terrified cries of the little ones were no more, and all he could hear was the howl of the wind and the crash of the waves and—

And the terrified cries of the little one he somehow still held.

“Hush,” he heard himself saying, hovering just for a moment, cuddling the baby close to him and shielding him from the wind and the rain with his body. “Hush, hush, it’s all right, you’re safe now, little one. It’s all right, it’s all right …”

A strong set of arms, a soothing voice, perhaps a smidge of Heavenly certainty—the baby soon quieted. The cries died down into hiccups; the child nestled into Aziraphale’s arms and nuzzled against him.

“Oh, your poor thing,” Aziraphale said, because—because it was easier to focus on this baby, the little one who was still here, instead of all the others whom he hadn’t been able to save—

But this one. He’d _saved_ this one. Or he’d—he’d mostly saved it. The baby would need food and warmth and a home soon, and Aziraphale—

He still couldn’t use miracles.

_That_ was what snapped him out of his stupor. The baby was alive now, but it wouldn’t be forever, not in this weather, not without food. Aziraphale waited only long enough to make sure the baby was secure in his hold before he flew back toward the land, as fast as he could without putting the little one at more risk.

Eventually he outran the storm, and soon after that he found what he thought was a clear area of beach. Truth to tell, he wasn’t looking too hard. He just wanted both feet back on _terra firma_ , and once there, he’d—he’d think of something.

So he swooped down and only landed as gently as he did because of the baby in his arms. On his own he would have slammed to his knees and damned the pain, but the little one—the little one didn’t deserve that kind of treatment. He’d already been through so much, poor thing.

Both feet on the ground finally, Aziraphale let himself fall to his knees, gently, cradling the baby close to him, taking a moment to close his eyes and just _breathe_ —

“Oh sweet Jesu in Heaven!”

_Oh NO._

Apparently the beach wasn’t as empty as Aziraphale had thought.

There was a man there—thankfully just _one_ —a fisherman, if the humble clothes and the fishing boat right behind him were any indication. He was staring at Aziraphale, and—

Oh, damn it all, Aziraphale hadn’t even thought to put his wings away—

“Be not afraid,” Aziraphale heard himself say automatically.

It was the wrong thing to say. The man collapsed to his knees and clasped his hands in entreaty.

“Oh, Lord, forgive me my sins—”

“No, no, I am _not_ the Lord—”

“—I swear I didn’t mean no harm by any of it—”

“I’m sure you didn’t. Now _do_ get up—”

“—I’ve got a wife; I’ve got to support her—”

“And I’m sure you do an excellent—hang on, did you say a wife?”

The direct question seemed to surprise the man into an answer, of a sort. He nodded.

“… Any children?” Aziraphale heard himself ask.

Now the man looked away and swallowed. “N-no. We—we ain’t been so blessed.”

Aziraphale looked at the babe in his arms.

It couldn’t be this simple. Except—it had been before, hadn’t it?

Aziraphale thrust that thought down and away, because he hadn’t spent over twenty-three hundred years _not_ thinking about that only to go and think about it _now_. But—but maybe he didn’t have to think about it. Maybe he could just trust that perhaps he had been put into this man’s path for a reason.

Slowly, Aziraphale loosened the grip he had on the little one, enough that the fisherman could see. “Would you like one?”

The fisherman saw the baby and breathed in sharply, and that—that hurt. Aziraphale couldn’t sense desires, but sometimes one didn’t have to, and the longing on this man’s face was as clear as the waning light dappling on the sea.

The fisherman swallowed twice and dared to glance up at Aziraphale. “Me an’ me wife don’t have much. We ain’t—you should take the mite to someone important, someone who—”

“No, no,” Aziraphale said quietly. “That’s not what it’s about at all. You—you say you don’t have much; well, neither did Yosef and Miryam—er, Joseph and Mary—and, well. They did all right.” Aziraphale looked down at the baby and swallowed hard, drawing a finger along the dew-soft cheek. “All that matters is that you have love.” He looked back up. “Would you?”

“Of course,” the fisherman said at once, and blushed a little having said it. He looked again at the baby. “Are—are you sure—what about his parents?”

“His parents …” Goodness, what _about_ his parents? Arthur had called for all the baby boys born on May Day to be brought to him; this child could belong to anyone. His parents would probably desperately want him back …

But that would be far too dangerous, and _any_ parent would much rather their child be raised far away from them, loved and _safe_ , if the alternative were the child not being alive at all.

“His parents can’t care for him,” Aziraphale replied. He stumbled over to the man and held the child out. “But you can.”

The fisherman slowly, wonderingly took the baby from him. “Poor little mite, he’s soaked.” The fisherman tore the baby’s blanket off him, only to replace it with his own (much drier) cloak. But not before remarking, “Huh, he’s got a little necklace on him. Looks like a dragon …”

“Put that away in a safe place and tell him, someday, how he came to be part of your family,” Aziraphale suggested. Then, frowning, “Or don’t. Sell if it’s worth something and use the money to educate him. Make him your son in every way.”

“Hmm. I’ll talk to the wife about it.” The fisherman looked up. “I—I can’t thank you enough.”

“Don’t thank me at all. Really,” Aziraphale said. “And _don’t_ mention this to anyone—other than your wife, obviously.”

The fisherman smiled, and nodded, and then got up and headed toward, presumably, home—cradling the little one close every step of the way.

And Aziraphale let out a slow sigh of relief.

Whatever else happened—at least _this_ baby would be all right.

* * *

“Look, all I’m saying is, strange women lying in ponds distributing swords is no basis for a system of government,” Crowley said, leaning back and taking a sip of his ale. In the past few months, he’d learned a thing or two about fomenting, and the thing was this: it was much easier to go about fomenting while drinking something fermented.

Another thing that made fomenting easier: sitting in a nice warm tavern in a city big enough to have some (potential) wild-eyed radicals. Best of all was if one could do it while managing to snag a seat by the fire. Even not being dressed in full plate armor, even not out in the mist and the wind and the wet, this country was still infernally damp. Crowley couldn’t begin to understand what about it was so special that would lead Heaven to put its best angel here.[3]

His fomenting would have been going swimmingly, except the wild-eyed radicals weren’t wild-eyed (or drunk) enough to be quite as radical as Crowley needed them to be. “That’s treason,” said one of them, though he said it with a laugh and a sip of his own drink.

“‘Treason’ is a just a word used by men with swords to mean ‘something I don’t want to hear,’” Crowley replied. “And let me point out something that they all seem to forget—”

He stopped.

He straightened[4] from his lackadaisical slouch, every sense on high alert, rather like a dog suddenly sitting up upon hearing a familiar – or not-so-familiar – footfall too faint for its humans to notice.

Another demon had entered the tavern.

“’Scuse me, gents,” he heard himself say, slithering up and edging toward the door. What he was going to do when he got there was yet to be determined – it would depend on what he found.

The tavern was crowded (thanks in no small part to all the peace and prosperity Arthur was spreading, which led to little things like “disposable income” and “leisure time” for the populace at large), so getting to the door took some time. But even so, when Crowley got there, his nose led him right to his quarry. A small demon (not that that meant anything), male-shaped (which also didn’t mean anything), hunched to make himself appear smaller with a hood thrown over his head and a watchful, worried posture.

The demon turned in Crowley’s direction; their eyes met; the corner of Crowley’s mouth curled up, ready for a hiss or a sneer as the occasion dictated—

Then he recognized the demon and blinked. “… Mephistopheles?”

The demon recognized him, too, if the widening of his eyes was any indication. “Crawly?”

“ _Crow_ -ley,” Crowley corrected automatically.

“Oh, sorry.” Mephistopheles looked away, abashed, then back. “… Wait. Did you change it?”

“Yeah. ‘Bout five hundred years ago.”

“Oh—I’m sorry. I hadn’t heard.”

That had to be the easiest conversation regarding his new name that Crowley had had in centuries. “Well, we all know that the infernal grapevine only works about half the time.” He smiled and, sensing a peace offering wouldn’t be out of place, offered, “Buy you a drink?”

Mephistopheles wrinkled his nose. “Wait, you actually …?”

“Look, if you want to blend in, you at least need a cup in your hand. Oi, bartender! A cup of your best ale for my friend here,” Crowley said, slapping Mephistopheles on the back in a way that was meant to be companionable, and probably would have been, if Mephistopheles hadn’t been taken by surprise and stumbled forward.

“Right you are, Master Crowley!” said the bartender, with enough joviality in the words that Mephistopheles turned to Crowley in something like shock.

“I tip well,” Crowley said by way of explanation, taking the cup and handing it to Mephistopheles. “Now what brings you to this neck of the woods? I thought you were in – Raetia?”

“I was,” Mephistopheles said, bringing the cup to his nose, sniffing, and shuddering. Crowley rolled his eyes (safe behind his sunglasses) and led Mephistopheles to his favorite table in the place – the one in the quietest, darkest corner that still got some heat from the fire. The table was currently occupied, but all Crowley had to do was smile at the current occupants (showing a bit of fang), and they got the hint and left.[5]

Mephistopheles cast a sidelong glance up at him, and Crowley almost thought he saw a smile, but it was gone too quickly for him to be sure. They slid into the now-empty seats. Mephistopheles once again brought his cup to his lips, and once again he made a face and put it back down again without even tasting it.

“They have wine in Raetia. Good wine, too,” Crowley remarked. “Why’d you leave?”

“Never tried the wine,” Mephistopheles replied. “Although leaving wasn’t my idea. I’m contracted to a human who fancies himself a sorcerer, and he wanted to come here, so … here we are.”

Crowley blinked. He actually blinked. And then, to make sure he’d done it right, he did it again. “What.”

“It’s not a bad gig, if you can get it,” Mephistopheles replied, shrugging. “Do what one human says for seven years, and at the end of it, you get his soul. Or hers, or theirs – but it’s almost always a ‘he.’”

“Seven years of a human bossing you around – and in return, you get _one_ soul?” Crowley asked.

“Well, when you put it like that …” Mephistopheles swirled the ale in his cup and looked anywhere that wasn’t at Crowley. When he spoke again, it was almost apologetic. “I mean—management will spend longer and do more work to get just one, if you think about it. When I jump in on these ‘sorcerers,’ they’ve already half-damned themselves – all I have to do to make quota is fetch and carry for a bit, maybe do a few parlor tricks.”

He frowned into the cup. “Although _this_ one wants to make me work for it …”

“Ooo-ooh?” Crowley asked, letting his raised eyebrows ask his questions for him.

Mephistopheles shifted in his seat, shoulders hunched. One finger began to trace the rim of the cup. “Um … can I ask what you’re doing here?”

“Fomenting, mainly,” Crowley replied.

Mephistopheles frowned and looked suspiciously into his cup.

“ _Fomenting_ , not _fermenting_ ,” Crowley said. “Spreading discord, discontent, rumor, rebellion, that sort of thing.”

“Ah.” Mephistopheles nodded. He shifted in his seat like he couldn’t find a comfortable position – which he probably couldn’t; when these chairs had been designed, comfort hadn’t been one of the things they were aiming for. “Um. So. You’re not here because of Merlin?”

Crowley hiked an eyebrow over his sunglasses. “The king’s tame wizard?”

“Only, there’s a rumor on the continent.” Mephistopheles wouldn’t meet his eyes. “That Merlin. Um. Was supposed to be the Antichrist.”

Crowley’s jaw fell.

“Except he got baptized soon after he was born, so—that didn’t work out.”

“The _Antichrist_.”

“Like I said, it was a rumor—”

“In _this_ backwater. You think, out of all the countries that are now under our dominion – sort of – Satan’s going to send his son _here_?” Crowley waved a hand to indicate the tavern, the county, hell, the entire damp and miserable island.

“I didn’t say it made sense,” Mephistopheles said apologetically. “But it’s what people are saying on the continent.”

“Satan’s sake,” Crowley muttered, leaning back in his chair and shaking his head.

“And it’s why I’m here. Er. Sort of.” Once again Mephistopheles squirmed and sighed. “Timotheus – my human – wants to take on Merlin.”

Now Crowley let both of his eyebrows climb out over his sunglasses and have a look around. “You mean …?”

“Wizard’s duel, see who’s the best, winner gets to be Arthur’s magician.”

“With _you_ doing all the work.”

“Well, obviously.” Mephistopheles shrugged. “I’m still trying to figure out if I should convince him otherwise or just go along with it.”

Crowley made a show of considering that for about two seconds. “Convince him otherwise.”

Mephistopheles tilted his head to one side. “Oh?”

“It’s not Merlin that I’d worry about,” Crowley said. “Or at least, I’d worry about him, a little, because—well, I’m not really sure _what’s_ up with Merlin. Whether he’s a run-of-the-mill charlatan or a human with a gift or … well, let’s just say that the divinities that used to be in charge around these parts haven’t exactly _left_ ; they’ve just gone … underground.”

Mephistopheles’s eyes went very round indeed.

“So if I were you, I wouldn’t want to get into a wizard’s duel with him, because—well, let me guess, that contract of yours is only good if your human _survives_ the seven years, no?”

“Hence why we left Raetia,” Mephistopheles muttered.

It sounded like there was a story there, and maybe, in another time, in another place, Crowley would have asked about it. But not here. Not now. Not when there was something much, much more important to be done. “Right. But look, the worst Merlin can do to you – probably – is kill your ‘Tim the Enchanter’ and get you in a bit of hot water Downstairs. But Merlin is not the only, shall we say, _supernatural_ person in King Arthur’s court.” And then, before Mephistopheles could ask, Crowley said, almost offhandedly, “There’s an angel on the Table Round.”

Mephistopheles stared. And blinked. And blinked again. “Wait, what?”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, “well, he’s calling himself _Sir_ Aziraphale – Angel of the Eastern Gate. As in, Eastern Gate of _Eden_. As in, _he’s been on Earth that long_. _He’s_ half the reason _I’m_ here – I’m trying to keep him in check, which, let me tell you, is a full-time job. Now, he and I, we’re pretty evenly matched, and after so bloody long, I know a few tricks to keep him busy, but …”

Crowley leaned a little closer, the way he would with a human he was trying to convince, and put a would-be companionable hand on Mephistopheles’s shoulder. Mephistopheles flinched, so Crowley quickly removed that hand. “Anyway. Mephistopheles, please don’t take this the wrong way, but if you – or any other demon – were to show up within five miles of Camelot, he’d smite the Hell out of you – literally. He might just turn you into an angel again.”

“But that …” Mephistopheles frowned, blinking. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“All right, so maybe there was a bit of hyperbole involved, but _trust me_ when I say that you don’t want to mess with—”

“No, no, not the ‘smite the Hell out of me’ bit,” Mephistopheles said, waving Crowley’s objections away like no one dared to do with Beelzebub’s flies. “I knew that was an exaggeration. What I mean is—an angel. On the Table Round. That doesn’t make sense.”

Crowley’s brow furrowed. “Why not? Spreading peace, goodwill, seems like it’d be right up Heaven’s alley.”

“Well, maybe, but …” Again Mephistopheles shifted. Only now it was starting to look like squirming. “Timotheus is … we’re trying to get the lay of the land before he makes any move against Merlin. And he—well, _I_ heard …” Mephistopheles began to fiddle with his cup. “You—you heard about the king’s son, right?”

The change of subject was fast enough to give him whiplash, but luckily, Crowley was quicker on the uptake than the average demon. “You mean the one he had with his sister? Lot’s wife[6]? _Everyone’s_ heard about that.”

Mephistopheles smirked, but it was gone in a flash. “Right. And—and you heard how he tried to get rid of the babe, right?”

“I heard,” Crowley replied in the most bored tone he could manage. “Wait— _tried_?”

“Tried,” Mephistopheles repeated. “He—he failed. Or, well, I _think_ he failed. Because—because I heard an angel flew out after the boat—the one with all the babies.”

_What._

“And the angel came back with—with just one baby.”

_WHAT?!?!?_

“So I thought, obviously that _has_ to be the king’s son, and it seemed to make sense, you know – if Merlin is one of _ours_ , and the king is his protégé, and the baby is supposed to take down the king, obviously Heaven wants to keep the baby alive – it wouldn’t be the first time they overlooked adultery or even incest if it meant winning the longer game, but if—if Heaven is working _with_ the king, then why—”

“What’d he look like?” Crowley asked.

Mephistopheles started. “What?”

“The angel. Who saved the baby. What did he—or she—look like? Do you know?”

“Oh. Very angelic. No, really,” Mephistopheles said, probably because he felt Crowley’s glare through the sunglasses. “The people who saw him remarked on that. White curly hair, big white wings …”

_Shit!_

It had to be Aziraphale. There weren’t any other angels Crowley knew of with hair like that – certainly none in Wessex or anywhere else on this Satan-forsaken island. But why in Somebody’s, Anybody’s name would he put himself out to save the king’s bastard son? It couldn’t be under Heaven’s orders; Heaven would never want him to be so conspicuous about it—

_Oh._

_OH._

Crowley _knew_ why.

He glanced sidelong at Mephistopheles, still babbling on about the angel he’d heard about, still trying to sort out what Heaven’s game in all of this was. And Mephistopheles—Mephistopheles was clever. If he worried at this long enough, he’d realize that “Heaven’s” game made absolutely no sense, and if he realized that, it was only a matter of time before he realized that Aziraphale must have acted on his own.

And Crowley would be damned again if he let that happen. Even—even if there wasn’t something _else_ he was trying to hide, trying to protect, Hell wasn’t allowed to find out that Aziraphale had a mind of his own when Aziraphale refused to acknowledge it himself.

So he needed to come up with a cover story, and he needed to do it fast.

Crowley sighed – loudly enough that Mephistopheles stopped talking and looked at him quizzically. “You planning to drink that?” he asked, gesturing to Mephistopheles’s cup.

Mephistopheles shoved it over without a word. Crowley downed the entire thing in one gulp.

And when he slammed the cup back onto the table, he had a plan.

“Satan,” he sighed, stretching his neck from side to side, “I know _we’re_ supposed to be the bad guys, but Heaven’s a real bunch of bastards, aren’t they?”

Mephistopheles’s eyes narrowed. “Well—yes, but—why?”

“Well, it’s obvious what they’re playing at, right?” Crowley said, leaning back in his seat and stretching his legs out before him, like this was the most casual conversation in the world, like he absolutely did not care whether anything he said convinced Mephistopheles or not. “I’d wager that the king’s getting a bit too big for his britches. I mean, he doesn’t even have a beard yet, and he’s already defeated armies twice the size of his, what, twice now? He keeps pulling out victories like that, eventually he’s going to forget who he owes all his victories to, no?”

“… Merlin?” Mephistopheles asked.

“ _No_. Well— _maybe_.” Crowley shot Mephistopheles a sideways smirk. “But as far as _Upstairs_ is concerned …”

Mephistopheles rolled his eyes. “Of course. Humans can’t ever earn anything themselves.”

“Exactly. But no king is going to give them the credit if he thinks he can possibly take it for himself.”

“So … they tricked him into sleeping with his sister?” Mephistopheles asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Nah. They’re not that smart. But once he did … well, now Heaven has a golden opportunity to keep their gold-ish boy in line.”

Mephistopheles’s eyes narrowed—until they didn’t. He sucked in a gasp. “The boy is supposed to destroy the king.”

“Mmmm-hmmm.”

“But Heaven might protect him from that.”

“ _Might_. I wouldn’t bet on it, mind.”

“Well, no, we _know_ them—but a human …”

“Thinks they’re the good guys.”

“So as long as he does what Heaven says … he’s safe. Maybe.”

“And if he ever _stops_ doing what Heaven says …” Crowley let his raised eyebrows do the talking for him.

Mephistopheles snorted – and shuddered. “And they think _we’re_ evil.”

“They like to forget that _they’re_ the ones swearing fealty to a god who so loved the world, She drowned it … and then She sent her only Son to be strung up like a side of beef so humans could get into Heaven. Because of some ridiculous rules that _She_ made up. And could change at any point.”

Mephistopheles sighed and shook his head. “And here I thought humans were bad.”

“They were made in _Her_ image, don’t you know.” Crowley slapped both hands on the table and straightened.[7] “Right. Well, that was depressing enough that I’m going to need another drink. Can I get one for you, too?”

Mephistopheles smirked. “You can get two for you and say one’s for me.”

“I like the way you think.” Crowley grinned and got up, making his way back toward the bar.

And as he did, he didn’t relax. Or breathe a sigh of relief. After all, he still had a demon at his back, for all that Mephistopheles seemed like a decent enough sort.

But he did congratulate himself a little. With any luck, he’d kept his angel safe another day.

_But next time, Aziraphale – just come to me from the start. And we’ll figure it out together._

* * *

“Sir Aziraphale?”

The voice was quiet, and measured, and even pleasant – and it _still_ made Aziraphale nearly jump right out of his corporation. He spun around, one hand over his thundering heart, and even he could hear how his voice cracked on his automatic, “Ye-es?”

But his interlocutor didn’t raise an eyebrow. Didn’t so much as turn a hair. Instead he smiled, faint and enigmatic.

On a normal human, that would have been unnerving enough. But since this was _Merlin_ not expressing any surprise at Aziraphale acting like a cat on hot tiles, it was a thousand times worse.

Did he know? _Could_ he know what Aziraphale had realized when he got back to Camelot, saw the banners in the royal hall, and realized that a dragon-shaped necklace on the baby he’d saved might possibly be significant? And if he did—what was he going to do about it?

Whatever it was, Merlin didn’t seem ready to do it now. “You have a visitor,” he said helpfully. “Asked after you specifically.”

“A—a visitor?” Aziraphale repeated, like an idiot.

“Mmm, indeed. A tall fellow, dark hair, violet eyes. Introduced himself as Archbishop Gabriel. He said you would know him,” Merlin replied, and—that was _definitely_ a twinkle in his eyes, even as Aziraphale’s stomach dropped to the vicinity of his feet and kept going.

“A-a-archbishop—”

“Yes, you may wish to have a word with him about that. After all, we are but a small kingdom, and we don’t have so many archbishops that we’re liable to lose track of who they are.” Merlin’s smile, if anything, deepened. “I thought it best to leave him in the chapel. At least someone in an archbishop’s robes won’t look too terribly out of place there.”

“I—er, well, yes—that is—thank you, sir, I’d best—”

“Oh, indeed,” Merlin said, stepping out of Aziraphale’s way like—like he was actually blocking Aziraphale’s way. Which was absolutely absurd; they were in the _apple orchard_ ; there was _plenty_ of room for Aziraphale to walk around him. In theory. “Best not to keep a … _man_ like that waiting.”

The way he said _man_ – and that pause – Aziraphale looked at the wizard hard for a few seconds, then shook his head and hurried past him.

He got exactly three steps beyond Merlin when he spoke again. “Oh—and Sir Aziraphale? Don’t worry about Father Tobit.”

Aziraphale stopped. “Father—Father Tobit? Why would I—wait, what happened to—”

“Oh, he’s fine, just fine. Or he will be, once he recovers from his faint. But I already absconded with most of the communion wine,” Merlin said lightly, “so when he starts talking about a tall, dark man stepping through the stained-glass window and commanding him not to be afraid – well, I think everyone will see the missing communion wine and jump to the conclusion that’s most convenient for you. Don’t you?”

And again Merlin smiled, and again Merlin’s eyes twinkled, and all Aziraphale could say was, “Oh, good _Lord_ ,” before rushing to the chapel as quickly as his legs could carry him.

He didn’t know what to panic over more—what Merlin might or might not know, what Father Tobit might or might not have seen, or what Gabriel might or might not be doing here—

Between his racing thoughts and his rushing feet, he was quite out of breath by the time he reached the chapel. He threw open the door, hoping and praying that Merlin was the only (probable) human to have run into Gabriel—well, other than Father Tobit—

There was no one in the chapel.

Aziraphale breathed in sharply, but before his panic could grow, he heard a voice off to his left.

“Is that supposed to be _me_?”

He turned, and—

Oh. Of course Gabriel would find his way to the little alcove with the tapestry showing the Annunciation. Aziraphale had his own bones to pick with that tapestry – Miryam looked far too old, far too rich, and not nearly frightened enough – but naturally Gabriel would focus on how he himself had been depicted.

As soon as the thought ran through his head, Aziraphale chided himself for it. Really, Gabriel was an _archangel_! Aziraphale mustn’t think of him like he was some prideful human!

Not that Gabriel was making it easy. Church robes tended to be more sumptuous than what most humans wore, even among the nobility, and Gabriel had opted not just for an archbishop’s robe but an archbishop’s richest ceremonial vestments. It was all Aziraphale could do not to close his eyes and sigh.

But now was not the time for that. His superior had asked a question, and Aziraphale owed him an answer. He stood up straight, trying to school his face into impassivity, putting his hands behind his back so they wouldn’t betray his thoughts. “I—I believe so,” he said.

Gabriel squinted at the tapestry. “I don’t think I’ve _ever_ had a blond corporation.”

“Well, no,” Aziraphale said, “but humans—I’ve noticed their art tends to depict us looking like, well, the local humans. I’m not sure whether that’s a _good_ thing, on the whole, but I’ve never had the heart to try to correct them—and they’re making so much art that it would be a fool’s errand anyway—”

“I’m sure,” Gabriel dismissed. Aziraphale shut his mouth in a hurry.

Then Gabriel turned around, sighed, and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale—what am I going to do with you?”

“S-s-sir?” Aziraphale asked, standing up straighter, trying to keep his tone even and his expression no more than mildly enquiring.

“I mean, I _do_ have to hand it to you, this plan to keep Author in line …” Gabriel sighed, then smiled and spread his hands. “It’s good. You do seem to understand how humans think. But after so long on Earth, that’s just to be expected, right?”

“Er, yes, of course—er, did you mean _Arthur_ , sir?”

Gabriel blinked. “Eh?”

“The, ah—you said ‘author.’ Or perhaps I misheard. Did you mean—”

“The king, the king,” Gabriel said, dismissing Aziraphale’s objections with a wave of his hand. “Anyway. Like I was saying. Good work, keeping the king in line. Keeping his son alive so he knows we’re the only ones who can save him from his sins— _great_ idea.”

If Aziraphale hadn’t had millennia of practice keeping his face neutral and his hands still, he would have gasped, and his hands would have flown to his mouth. But no amount of practice could quiet the panicked alarums that rang in his head.

_HE KNOWS?!?!_

But … Gabriel didn’t seem angry …

Somehow, that only made Aziraphale more nervous.

“But the execution …” Gabriel sighed and shook his head.

Aziraphale’s stomach dropped. “I—I did what I could, sir. Unfortunately, it wasn’t within my power to save the other children, or I—”

“The what? Oh, the other babies. Don’t worry about them.” Gabriel waved a hand. “They were all baptized so, hey, we won that one.”

Aziraphale forced a small smile, because he knew if he didn’t, there would be no way to keep the dismay off his face. “How—how good. For us.”

“Right, right, very good for us. _But_. What I’m trying to say …” Gabriel sighed. “You were _seen_ , Aziraphale. With your wings out. And not just by the fisherman.”

Aziraphale let his face fall. It was easier to do that than to try to parse out what he was supposed to be feeling versus what he actually felt. “Oh. Oh, dear, I do apologize, Gabriel—”

“You know that humans aren’t supposed to see your wings without prior authorization,” Gabriel said. “What were you thinking?”

_You told me not to use miracles, so I had to improvise,_ while perfectly truthful and even quite succinct, would not be an acceptable response. “I—didn’t want to go over miracle quota,” Aziraphale said, twisting his hands behind his back and standing up even straighter. “I understand how important it is that we are frugal with our resources—”

“Keeping a _king_ in line is worth a couple extra resources, Aziraphale,” Gabriel said, sighing and shaking his head. “And certainly would have been less trouble in the long run than letting yourself be _seen_.”

“In—indeed. I am—I am _quite_ sorry, Gabriel—”

Gabriel waved away his apologies. “Yes, I’m sure you are. We can review your performance later. Now, I think we need to talk about next steps – because here’s the thing. You weren’t just seen. According to our intelligence, you were seen by _demons_.”

Aziraphale blinked, and his first thought was, _Crowley_? And that thought was immediately dismissed. If Crowley had been the only demon to see him, Gabriel would have never found out about it. Some other demon—

Aziraphale’s breath hitched, and the circulation he technically didn’t need ran cold. “The—the child—if demons saw; if they _guess_ —” Aziraphale hadn’t quite determined what it was that the demons would have guessed, but Gabriel seemed to have a plan here, and not all demons were as kind as Crowley. There were plenty who wouldn’t stint at killing an infant if it meant disrupting a Heavenly plan.

“Don’t worry about that. We’ve got eyes on him. Not quite an angel, a saint …” Gabriel shook out his sleeve; a small scroll appeared. He squinted at it. “St. Toirdealbhach? Am I saying that right?[8] Oh—and we sent the boy back to his mother. She should raise him right, better than a fisherman would.”

Aziraphale’s eyes went wide for a fraction of a second before he forcibly clamped down on that reaction. “Er, with all due respect, sir, are we—are we sure about that? Only, I could be _very_ wrong, but from what I was able to determine about Arthur’s, er, sin is that while _he_ was quite ignorant of the relationship between him and the Queen of Lothian, _she_ might not have been—”

“Oh, she certainly wasn’t,” Gabriel laughed, “but that’s the beauty of it, isn’t it? She’ll make sure the boy knows what’s expected of him. Meanwhile, _you_ focus on keeping the king – and the rest of the kingdom – in line.”

Aziraphale swallowed hard and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach, “But—but shouldn’t we—wouldn’t allowing her to do that mean her soul would be forfeit to …?”

“Well, it’s not like _she_ was going to end up in Heaven,” Gabriel snorted, “and that’s assuming her soul was even, you know, in play to begin with.”

“Q-quite,” Aziraphale said, forcing a flickering smile. “And—and the child …?”

“Well, who knows where _his_ soul will end up – I mean, spending your life seeking revenge on your own father, not exactly promising – but well, what’s one soul in the grand scheme of things? Not when we’re playing for a whole kingdom. Oh! That reminds me.” Gabriel grinned and rubbed his hands together. “Another thing I wanted to discuss. Since we’re investing so much in Arthur, we might as well make it count. Let me tell you what I have planned for the Holy Grail …”

Aziraphale let him. Gabriel was his superior; he had no other choice. So he nodded along, and smiled in the right places, and looked quite serious in the places where he wasn’t meant to smile.

Whatever he did, he didn’t frown. He didn’t allow one drop of dread or one iota of dismay to show. This was, after all, a Divine plan – or an archangel’s plan, which was very nearly the same thing.

And through it all, his hands clutched each other behind his back, and his mind grasped one important point: the child was safe. The child would be all right. Heaven wanted him alive and hopefully would guard him well enough that Hell wouldn’t think it worth the trouble to interfere.

And the child, at the end of the day, was human. He had free will. He could, when the time came, make a different choice from the one everyone around him seemed determined to have him make. Perhaps – perhaps he would make that different choice, and perhaps everything would turn out all right, in the end.

It was a slender thing for Aziraphale to rest his hopes upon. But unfortunately, it was all he had.

* * *

_Circa 567 A.D._

_Kingdom of Wessex_

Crowley’s usual approach to battles was _stay the Heaven away unless directly ordered not to_. Battles were for chumps. It was far too easy to get discorporated, and at the end of the day, nobody had any idea whose side God (or Satan) really was on. Most battles came about because of a mish-mash of human emotions, conflicting desires, and miscommunication. The smart thing was to stay home and see what pieces could be picked up when it was all over.

But some battles. Some battles were different. Some battles were worth getting on a bloody horse for and feeding demonic miracle after demonic miracle into the blessed thing to keep it going through the night. Some battles were worth all the sore backsides and sleepless nights in the world for, if it meant that he’d get there in time to—

Actually, Crowley hadn’t decided what he’d do when he arrived. When he’d heard that Arthur had returned from France (not dead, as his son/nephew Mordred had claimed), he’d been too busy grabbing a horse and riding hell for leather to plan it out. But in the end, it didn’t matter.

He was too late. The battle was over by the time he got there.

The sun was just dipping under the horizon when he arrived, and even though it was getting too dark to see clearly, Crowley knew it was bad by what he heard. Groans and shouts of dying men. Caws of ravens and crows settling in for the feast. The occasional scream of a horse.

There should have been more noise. The jingle of armor and horses’ reins. Tramping of feet. Humans calling to each other as they tried to sort out who was dying and who was dead and who might yet live another day.

There wasn’t any of that.

If Crowley were a smarter demon, he would have turned around as soon as he realized that the sounds were all wrong. This wasn’t the first massacre he’d stumbled upon, and in all probability, it wouldn’t be the last. If he were smarter, he would have found the nearest tavern and chugged down everything that was drinkable until he forgot what he hadn’t seen but knew was there.

And maybe, if he were only here because of the humans, he would have been smart.

But he wasn’t here for the humans. And where certain people were concerned, he wasn’t smart at all.

Crowley dismounted from the horse[9], looked over the crest of the hill, and—nope, he wasn’t going to dwell on what he saw. He liked sleeping too much to want to give himself nightmares. So he closed his eyes and reached out with his other senses, wading through the smell of blood and the cloying miasma of fear and the soul-deep keens of despair and—

_There._

In the midst of darkness, a pinprick of light, a single star in a cloud-covered sky. A crisp mountain breeze cutting through the smells of blood and fear. A note of song in a chorus of screams.

_Aziraphale._

Crowley opened his eyes, and now that he knew where to look, Aziraphale wasn’t hard to find. He looked just as he had when they had last met thirty years ago, down to the ridiculous white cloak with the fur on the shoulders.

Well. The cloak _had_ been white …

But more importantly, Aziraphale was the only figure moving in the battlefield. He had been kneeling by—well— _someone’s_ side, but now he was getting up. Slowly, as if he could feel every one of the forty-five hundred years and change they’d spent on this mudball. And when he finally made his way to his feet, he didn’t move, just stood there with his head in his hands and his entire body unnaturally still.

Crowley’s corporation’s heart, always a particularly useless organ if you asked him, chose that moment to begin pounding. His feet, without requesting permission of the rest of him, decided to start skidding down the hill that led to the battlefield. His magic tossed out several demonic miracles to make sure he didn’t step on—on—anything he would later regret having stepped on. And his voice, which _really_ needed to learn the knack of checking in with the brain before just doing whatever it felt like doing, decided to shout, “Aziraphale!” at top volume.

And Aziraphale looked up.

For a moment he didn’t say or do anything. Then he shouted, “Crowley!” in a tone that was suspiciously close to happy.

And he _smiled_ , the stupid, blessed, beautiful bastard angel. At Crowley. It even reached his eyes, telling Crowley that, despite everything, Aziraphale was somehow glad to see him.

The smile didn’t last. It collapsed in on itself like the last gasp of a dying star. But it had been there, and that was all that mattered.

It didn’t take Crowley long to get to Aziraphale. And when he got there, Aziraphale smiled again – this one a small, perfunctory thing, politeness only.

“Angel,” Crowley said, and then his stupid voice betrayed him and didn’t follow that up with anything. So his brain hastily supplied, “You all right?”

“Oh—oh, fine, just fine, dear boy. Tickety-boo,” Aziraphale replied, again with that stupid, polite smile that would tear Crowley’s useless heart to ribbons if he let it.

And Crowley might have had something to say about not telling one’s demonic adversaries such transparently obvious lies, except Aziraphale shrugged when he said it. And his cloak moved. And when it did, it revealed that Aziraphale’s armor was much the worse for wear, and more importantly, that his _arm_ was much the worse for wear—

“Shit, angel, you’re bleeding—” was all Crowley was able to say as he made a sudden, swiftly aborted move toward the angel—and what exactly did he plan to do when he got there? He almost certainly couldn’t heal Aziraphale himself; even if the angel would let him, their energies couldn’t possibly mix well; they’d likely explode or something.

“What?” Aziraphale asked, looking down at his arm. “Oh, that? It’s only a flesh wound.”

“A _flesh wound_? Your arm’s practically falling off!”

Aziraphale blinked. He looked at Crowley. He looked at his arm (which was still quite securely attached). And then he rolled his eyes and snapped the fingers of his good hand.

The wound knit shut, and the armor fixed itself too, and Crowley could breathe again.

“So, ah …” Aziraphale looked around, then back at Crowley. “What, er, brings you here?”

He asked the question like they were standing in a market square, or a theater, or beside a caravan’s campfire, or any of the numerous places they’d run into each other over the course of the millennia. And sometimes, when he asked that question and the answer wasn’t terribly incriminating, Crowley was honest. And sometimes Crowley lied through his teeth (and was never sure if he was believed).

His answer right now was terribly incriminating, but he decided to be honest anyway. “Looking for you,” he said. “I came as soon as I heard that Arthur was back from France. Seriously, angel, are you all right?”

If Aziraphale had protested that he’d just healed his arm or that he didn’t know what Crowley was talking about, Crowley would have known that he was all right, or close enough. If Aziraphale had said that of course he was all right, Crowley would have known that he wasn’t.

Aziraphale didn’t do either of those things. Instead, he stared stricken for a moment at Crowley, then swallowed hard and looked away.

Crowley’s stomach dropped.

_Shit._

Aziraphale was not even _pretending_ to be all right.

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, finally, and it sounded like he’d dragged those words up though his throat kicking and screaming. “So you know who’s responsible for—all this.”

“Angel,” Crowley said, and—he wanted to step forward; he wanted to touch Aziraphale; he wanted to hold him close and let him cry, let him get it all out for once.

He didn’t do any of those things, because he wasn’t entirely stupid, but he _wanted_ to.

“It—it was Heaven’s plan, of course,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley’s stomach twisted in guilt. “And—and really it was quite clever of them, to—to use the child I saved for good. Well. Not that he’s a _child_ anymore—”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley interrupted. “There—there was nothing _clever_ about that plan. The only point of it was—” _To keep_ you _safe, to make sure that neither Heaven nor Hell figured out just why you went out of your way to rescue the king’s son._ He swallowed those words down. “It’s all a power play for them. That’s all. Doesn’t matter how many humans end up dead, as long as they can somehow notch a win on the scoreboard.”

Aziraphale snorted but didn’t protest—which was a bad sign if there ever was one. “Well—I suppose you were right about one thing.” He swallowed hard enough for Crowley to see his Adam’s apple bob and looked around. “We … we did end up canceling each other out in the end, didn’t we?”

Crowley had to fight down the wounded whimper that almost escaped him. “No. No, absolutely not. What—ok, yes, at first glance, it looks like things ended in a draw here, your Side got the whole … Grail bit, my Side got …” Crowley waved his hand at the carnage all around. “But bullshit, angel, that’s not because of anything you or I _did_. It’s because a whole bunch of humans made some—admittedly terrible choices.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath. “Crowley—”

“But so _what_ if they made terrible choices? They were _human_ , Aziraphale; they made _human_ choices. And when people look back at this in a few years or a few centuries – that’s what they’ll see. A bunch of humans, being human. The most terrible, wonderful, awful, _perfect_ thing they can be.”

Aziraphale looked around; he sighed and hung his head. “I … doubt anyone will remember this and see anything other than a wreck and a ruin.”

“Oh, like Heaven they will. They’ll remember what Camelot was as much as … what it amounted to.”

“No,” Aziraphale shook his head, “no, I doubt that—look around, Crowley, there’s no one left who remembers Camelot as it was, as it could have been—”

“ _You do_ ,” Crowley fired back.

Aziraphale looked up suddenly, blinking, his lips slightly parted and his eyes very wide.

“You were there. For the whole thing,” Crowley pointed out. “So, so go talk to one of those scholar blokes you like so much, and get him to write the whole thing down. So people remember. So they can see Camelot as it was, even if they never got to see it in person.”

Aziraphale didn’t answer. But he did swallow. And he licked his lips. And he wouldn’t meet Crowley’s eyes.

Crowley would take that for success.

“Now come on,” he said, gesturing Aziraphale forward. “There’s a tavern not far up the road. Somehow didn’t get wiped out by the marauding armies. We could both use a drink.”

Aziraphale shook his head – but he didn’t argue, and when Crowley slowly started walking away, Aziraphale followed.

They’d made it perhaps halfway up the hill when Aziraphale spoke again. “… Crowley?”

“Yeah, angel?”

“I—I shouldn’t even be asking you this—”

“Oooh, my favorite type of question.”

“Oh, _hush_.” But the hush was teasing; the hush was gentle; the hush was accompanied by a smile, so Crowley would take it a thousand times over.

Crowley grinned back, and he kept grinning until Aziraphale stopped smiling and looked away. But before Crowley could worry[10], Aziraphale was speaking again.

“You—you said once that you didn’t think I could do the wrong thing.” Aziraphale’s lip quivered, just the tiniest bit. “Is—is there any part of you that might—still believe that?”

“Oh, angel,” Crowley breathed. And he’d probably regret it later, but he couldn’t stop himself from saying the next words, and he really didn’t want to. “There’s no part of me that ever stopped.”

* * *

[1] How, exactly, something that was supposedly infinite – the love of God and the power of Her grace – could possibly be subject to resource limitations was something Aziraphale occasionally wondered but knew better than to ask.

[2] And mistranslated.

[3] Well, _Crowley_ thought Heaven had put its best angel here. Whether Heaven would agree or not was an open question.

[4] Sort of.

[5] Or ran away, technically.

[6] Lot as in the King of Lothian and Orkney, not Lot as in only (theoretically) righteous man in Sodom. (Crowley questioned whether any man whose response to a potential gang-rape of his guests was to suggest the gang rape his daughters instead could be called _righteous_ , but nobody had asked his opinion on the matter.) Crowley wished humans would stop recycling names; it was confusing enough to keep track of them all when they were all named different things.

[7] Relative to what his posture had been before that moment.

[8] He was not, but Aziraphale did not judge it prudent to correct him.

[9] Which immediately ran off, and frankly, good riddance.

[10] Too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tags to Mind**
> 
> **Baby Death/May Day Massacre** : Again, the whole first scene is dealing with this. But if you want to avoid the worst of it, you'll want to skip from "A wall of water like he hadn't seen since Egypt barreled toward them" and start reading again at "Hush." (In between, Aziraphale is able to grab and save one kid. Take a wild guess which one that is.)
> 
> (If you're wondering what the May Day Massacre is, it's when Arthur, in a moment of "oh shit" after realizing he'd slept with his sister and that the ensuing, inevitable baby would kill him, ordered all the babies born on May Day be brought to him and set on a boat that's sent out to sea. Naturally, only one kid survives, and that kid is his son, Mordred.)
> 
> **Deadnaming** : When Mephistopheles first sees Crowley, he isn't aware that Crowley has changed his name and calls him Crawly. Once corrected, he apologizes and doesn't make the mistake again. If this would be upsetting to you, you'll want to skip starting at "The demon recognized him, too" and start reading again at "That had to be the easiest conversation."
> 
> **Violence/Canon-Typical Violence/Battle of Salisbury** : The fourth and final scene deals with the aftermath of the Battle of Salisbury (also called the Battle of Camlann, depending on who you read), Arthur and Mordred's final confrontation. According to some sources (like Malory), there are only a handful of survivors of this battle - seriously, Malory has three people walk away from the battle, and one of them (Arthur) is being carried. Oh, and of those three, one dies of his wounds soon after and another (Arthur) is ferried off to Avalon, where he might or might not die of his wounds.
> 
> Of course, none of this is mentioned in the scene because Crowley has a one-track mind and the fate of Arthur and his knights is not on that track. But it is implied that the aftermath of the battle Crowley stumbles upon is bad. To skip the worst bits, stop reading at "He was too late. The battle was over by the time he got there" and start up again at "In the midst of darkness."
> 
> Aziraphale was wounded in the battle (he's fine, it's only a flesh wound, and he's an angel who can heal himself with a snap of his fingers). The wound isn't graphically described, but if you want to skip any hint of our favorite angel being (physically) hurt, you'll want to skip starting at "And his cloak moved" and start reading again at "The wound knit shut." (If you want to skip any hint of our favorite angel being _emotionally_ hurt ... you should skip this entire fic, sorry.)
> 
> Also, did I wound our angel solely so I could work "It's only a flesh wound" into this fic? ... Maybe ...


	3. Thames Starfish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In London in 2019, Aziraphale and Crowley cuddle some babies and look forward to the prospect of helping many, many more, now that their supervisors are permanently off their backs.
> 
> (Or, the author attempts to deliver some comfort after all the hurt.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am pleased to tell you that no fictional babies were harmed in the making of this chapter, which is a nice change from the other two. (No actual babies were harmed in the making of any of the chapters, because despite what you may think after reading this story, I am not a monster.)
> 
> However, fair warning: this chapter takes place in a NICU. While nothing bad happens, there is a sense throughout that not all of the babies who are in the NICU will get to go home. (Aziraphale and Crowley are doing their best to make sure as many babies get to go home and live long, healthy, happy lives as possible.) But if that sort of theme might be upsetting to you, you may wish to skip this chapter.
> 
> Another fair warning: this scene is told from Aziraphale's POV, and he gets extremely sappy in places. You have been warned!

_Circa 2019 A.D._

_London, England_

Over the millennia Aziraphale had come to appreciate that humans were in many ways really quite darling. Take human infants. Being touched, being held, was essential to their development in many ways. That, on its own, was charming. But even more adorable was what humans did once they figured out the connection – particularly where those babies who had to spend weeks or months in hospital before going home were concerned.

A neonatal unit only offered so much cuddling and affection. Parents did all they could, but sometimes, because of work or their own ill health or other little ones at home, they could only spend so much time with their babies. The doctors and nurses were far too busy with their other duties to do much holding. So the hospitals asked for volunteers, for normal, everyday humans to take a few hours of their weeks to come in and hold some babies, giving the little ones much-needed human touch and giving themselves a very persistent case of the warm fuzzies.

And they did it! They signed up, and they sat through classes, and they nodded along during orientations, and they learned proper holding techniques and infant CPR and all sorts of other useful things. And then, for a few blessed hours a week, they came to the hospital, sat in a comfortable chair, and held babies.

In London, those humans were joined by one angel.

Aziraphale had signed up for the cuddler program as soon as it began. Though he’d been cuddling babies since before any of the humans in the hospital had been born,[1] he had sat through the classes and duly learned infant CPR and all the rest of it. He’d even allowed humans to jab him with needles so he could say, truthfully, that he’d had all of his (completely unnecessary, given his angelic biology) immunizations, instead of just fudging the records to make it appear that he’d done so.[2] And in return, for four hours a week, he was allowed to sit quietly in a corner of the neonatal unit, rocking infants, or talking to them, or occasionally, when the nurses and doctors and parents and other visitors were all very busy and unable to hear him, singing to them.

At first, he’d strictly rationed the number of miracles he used. Smaller, subtler blessings were one thing. Granting a second wind to an exhausted nurse, gifting a doctor with a flash of divine insight, breathing in hope to desperate parents – these were all things Heaven was unlikely to object to. But honest-to-goodness miracles, the type that too many of the little ones needed if they were to be able to leave this place and go home with adults who loved them, were a different story. Heaven would have never seen the point of distributing those sorts miracles willy-nilly, without a greater purpose or game in mind.

However, in the wake of the Apocalypse-that-didn’t-happen (and everything afterward which most emphatically _had_ happened), Aziraphale had been rather forcibly retired. Fired, one might even say.[3] And one of the better parts of it – not the best, but better – was that Aziraphale no longer have to give a fig about what Heaven thought about how and when he chose to use miracles.

One of the first decisions he’d made vis-à-vis miracles was that every child he was privileged enough to be allowed to cuddle would eventually go home with a family that loved it. Sometimes, the little miracle he did was all the child needed – with that extra bit of divine comfort or a few nudges of stubborn medical problems, the child would be sent home with the same chance to live a happy and healthy life as a baby who hadn’t had to spend time in the neonatal unit. Sometimes, the child didn’t even need a miracle; all the child needed was a bit of time and good care, and they’d be right as rain. And sometimes …

Well. Even an angel who no longer had to worry about Heavenly quotas and miracle rations couldn’t fix everything. But every child he held would have a chance to not just be alive, but to live. And every child he held would know love. It wasn’t much, but it was what he could always provide.

But on this blustery, damp autumn day, Aziraphale wasn’t quite thinking about that. He didn’t have to. The little one in his arms would not need any extraordinary assistance from him, just a little love and comfort. He would enjoy his volunteer stint here, then head back to the bookshop for a bit of light reading, and in the evening Crowley was coming over, and they would head out to that new Italian place that had gotten excellent reviews …

“Oh, for Someone’s sake.”

Aziraphale looked up automatically and shot a grin at the speaker. “Oh, hello, dear boy. Just be patient for a bit, won’t you? This charming little lady needs a bit more love before I can hand her back off.”

And he looked down, fussing a bit with the blanket, wondering if now might be a good time to take one of the baby books from the basket near his feet and read it to the little one or if he should just tell her a story from memory.

Then his brain caught up with him, and he did a double take. “ _Crowley_?”

And it was Crowley. In hospital scrubs – and sunglasses, which might or might not have been against regulations, but it would be a perfectly balmy, temperate day in Hell before regulations stopped Crowley from doing something he wanted to do – rubbing the bridge of his nose.

He would have asked _what on Earth are you doing here?_ , except the scrubs (similar to Aziraphale’s own, if a few sizes smaller) and the nurse standing next to Crowley – while holding a baby – rather made it obvious.

The nurse was looking between the two of them with an expression of some consternation. “I take it you two know each other?”

“Biblically,” Crowley deadpanned, and only the fact that he was holding an infant in a room full of other very ill infants kept Aziraphale from squawking out a protest.[4]

Still, something must have shown on his face, for the nurse looked from him to Crowley and back again with a raised eyebrow. “Is this going to be a problem?” The tone indicated that if it _were_ to be a problem, Aziraphale and Crowley would very soon have bigger problems.

“Relax. We’re not squabbling exes, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Crowley said. And not letting the nurse lodge another protest, he took the baby and flopped into the rocking chair next to Aziraphale’s in a manner that looked much more lackadaisical than it was (and that caused the infant absolutely no pain or distress).

“Indeed,” Aziraphale said, trying to control his corporation’s blush and failing miserably. “As my … er … partner indicated, we are—well. _Not_ exes.”

“Hmm. Well, if you say so. But either way—behave yourselves. There are children present.” And with a bit of a grin and a wink, the nurse walked off, doubtless to attend to other patients.

Leaving Aziraphale, Crowley, and the babies alone in a quiet, peaceful little bubble.

Aziraphale didn’t say anything at first – he was too busy watching Crowley fuss with his baby’s blanket and rock the little one to and fro. Crowley was so _good_ with children, even the littlest ones, and he always had been – not that Aziraphale had had much chance to observe this before Warlock. And not that Aziraphale had dared to watch too closely even with Warlock. Besides the practicalities of the situation, watching too closely would have meant opening the door to memories he couldn’t bear to face and all the things he wouldn’t let himself think about.

But now …

Well. Things were different now.

So Aziraphale let himself for a moment – just for a moment – pretend he was looking at something else. At Crowley, yes, but Crowley sprawled out on the sofa in the bookshop, not in a rocking chair in a hospital neonatal ward.[5] And the baby in his arms had a shock of red hair and was wrapped in a hand-knitted tartan baby blanket that Crowley would grouse about to no end, but always would make sure to wrap her up warmly in when there was the slightest chill in the air. And in a moment or two, Crowley would look up and ask Aziraphale exactly what he thought he was looking at, and Aziraphale would reply, _The two people I love best_ , and Crowley would turn brick red and stammer for a while, and for a minute, all would be right with the world.

That agreeable mental image still dancing in his head, Aziraphale hummed a bit – a snatch of an old lullaby once sung in a language that no longer existed – and turned his attention back to the little lady in his own arms. She was sleeping soundly, so perhaps it wouldn’t hurt anything if Aziraphale let himself imagine, just for a moment, that it was a different baby he was holding …

That—hurt. Picturing this baby a bit larger, with that flame-red hair and those chubby little cheeks, brought up feelings he’d spent millennia forcing down – pain and fear and guilt. But Aziraphale took a deep breath and let himself feel them. Then with another deep breath, he let them pass. And … it got easier. The picture in his mind’s eye grew clearer – he was in a nursery, probably at Crowley’s flat (the bookshop didn’t have as a nice a view),[6] and the baby was wrapped up in a black blanket with flames on it, wearing a little onesie with a Bentley logo on it, and a few tufts of her hair were gathered in a hairslide shaped like a snake.

“What,” asked Crowley, “are you on about?”

Aziraphale blinked his way back to the present. “I—I’m sorry, what?”

“You’re _glowing_ , angel.”

“I most certainly am—” Aziraphale protested out of habit; then he got a look at his hand. “Oh dear.” He took a deep breath and then another, forcing the inconvenient manifestation down before anyone over the age of one could notice.[7]

He glanced sidelong at Crowley, but though Crowley wasn’t looking at him – his sunglasses were fixed rather intently on the infant he was holding – Crowley was smiling in a way that made it very obvious what he was thinking about. “So,” Crowley said, “care to share with the class what brought that on?”

“Oh … just thinking about … this and that.” This wasn’t the time or the place to go into depth, Aziraphale decided. There would be a time; he knew that. And he also knew that there would be a place that was most emphatically not in public. But because he didn’t want to leave Crowley entirely in the dark (and also because he was a bit of a bastard), he added, “A significant part of it was how happy being around you makes me.”

“Nyerk!”

Crowley flushed rather adorably, and chuckling to himself, Aziraphale began to hum again, cuddling the baby he was holding just a little closer.

When he judged he had given Crowley significant time to recover, he spoke again. “So … how long have you been doing this?”

Crowley didn’t answer right away, and when Aziraphale glanced sidelong at him, the brick-red flush was back (if it had ever left). “I don’t suppose,” he said finally, “that you wouldn’t believe me for a minute if I told you I just started last week?”

“There’s a waiting list that’s backed up for months.”[8]

“A demonic miracle could take care of that.”

Aziraphale didn’t dignify that with a response. He simply raised an eyebrow.

Crowley made an indeterminant sound that was mostly consonants before admitting, “I. Um. Might have signed up the first day it was on offer.”

“Oh, my _dear_ boy.”

“Don’t—don’t say anything soppy; for the love of Somebody, leave me with some dignity.”

“As you wish,” Aziraphale replied, which had the delightful effect of making Crowley’s flush even deeper. But while the reference was undoubtedly soppy, it gave him just enough plausible deniability that Crowley didn’t object. “I wonder why we haven’t run into each other before, though? I joined right when the program started, too.”

“Ah. That, er, might have been me. I did a few demonic miracles to keep anyone from either of our Sides from being here when I was on the schedule.”

For a split second, part of Aziraphale was hurt—and then reality set in, and his blood ran cold. “You—you were putting yourself at such a risk, doing this—”

“Nah.” Crowley waved his free hand. “Had about a dozen excuses ready to go. Just preferred not to use them unless I had to.”

Aziraphale let an eyebrow arch. “Name _one_.”

Crowley shot him a baleful look. “Well, for _one_ – kids this age are too young to sin, so, you know, if they don’t go home, they weren’t coming to us. So every kid I saved was a potential gain for Hell, you know, in a few years.”

 _He—he was miracling them better?_ Aziraphale realized, and then kicked himself, because of _course_ Crowley was doing what he could to help these children. Crowley was so much braver than he’d ever been and always had been.[9]

But Crowley seemed not to notice, because he was bound and determined to name not just one excuse, but as many as Aziraphale would let him. “Two, I was blessed _careful_ in how I did it. Always made sure there was at least one hotshot young doctor or gifted nurse around to take the credit. I was tempting humans by the dozen into Pride – and giving them some Avarice for more – and maybe even tempting some into Sloth, too, thinking they could just stand around and not do anything and the kids would get better on their own.”

“Wily serpent,” Aziraphale chuckled, tickling the baby in his arms under the chin. “Were you managing to tempt them into Gluttony, Lust, Wrath, and Envy, too, I wonder?”

Crowley didn’t answer right away. Aziraphale looked up in some alarm to find Crowley staring down into his baby’s face, rocking a bit faster in the chair than was probably warranted for one so little.

Before Aziraphale could say anything – like take back his clearly stupid and horribly timed joke – Crowley swallowed. “The Wrath and Envy,” he said softly, so softly that Aziraphale had to strain to hear him, “happened on their own.”

Aziraphale’s heart cracked to hear that, because—of course. The other parents. The ones whose babies didn’t miraculously get better. Or whose babies might not get better at all. Because even a demon – even one as clever as Crowley, even one given as long a leash as Crowley’s, even one as unexpectedly powerful and resourceful as Crowley – couldn’t fix everything.

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale said, reaching out and gently touching Crowley’s elbow (it being the only part of his corporation that Aziraphale could reach). “I am sure you did absolutely everything you could.”

Crowley snorted. “Maybe. Still.” He looked up with a hint of a mischievous smirk. “Doubt I did as much for them as _you_.”

“Oh …” Aziraphale slowly withdrew his hand under the guise of fussing with the baby’s blanket. “Oh, I didn’t dare to do anything. Other than, you know, the obvious.” And he held the baby a little closer as a nonverbal demonstration.

Crowley stared at him with an open mouth, and Aziraphale tried not to wince. But, well, Crowley already knew exactly how much of a coward Aziraphale was, so why was he so surprised?

“That,” Crowley said slowly, “is absolute bullshit.”

“ _Crowley_!” he hissed. “Not in front of the children!”

“Not in front of the—you’re getting on me for _swearing_? Angel, I could be speaking in pig Latin for all these babies would understand or care!”

“Well, I understand, and I care.”

“Oh, you do understand, and you _do_ care,” Crowley replied, “which is why it’s a load of …” Crowley paused, deliberately, long enough that Aziraphale glared at him preemptively, which only made Crowley grin. “ _Tripe_ that you didn’t do anything.”

“Crowley, please.” Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably. “You know how closely Heaven watched my miracles. I—I was never brave enough to—”

“Bravery has nothing to do with it. I _know_ you. Even if you weren’t stupid enough to do miracles that would only get called on the carpet – and you aren’t stupid, angel, never have been – you were absolutely doing something. Rules-lawyering your way through helping these kids. It’s what you do.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth … and shut it again. Because that _was_ exactly what he had been doing. “It’s still less than what you were doing, I’m sure.”

“Wrong again. We were both doing exactly what we thought we could get away with doing. As we have been throughout approximately all of human history.”

There was absolutely no way to argue with that which would not entail strenuously denying exactly what he had been up to for the past six thousand years or so, so Aziraphale decided to skip the argument and head straight for revenge. “Well, be that as it may, I still think it was good of you – and _kind_ – and _brave_ – to help as many children as you did.”

“And here you criticize _my_ language in front of the children. How many four-letter words was that?”

“Two,” Aziraphale said. “ _Brave_ has five letters.”

“Know-it-all.” Crowley chuckled. “And for what it’s worth, you were an absolute blessed bastard, tip-toing right up to Heaven’s line and staying just this side of it while helping all the kids you could.”

Aziraphale had a dim sense that he ought to protest being called a blessed bastard, but that sense was on the verge of being drowned out by the warm glow that filled him at Crowley’s words, so he cheerfully ignored it. “I suppose we both were rebels, then, in our own way.” And he let out a pleased sigh. “But what a relief that we can now do what we like and no longer have to care about what our former employers think of it.”

“Truer words.”

Aziraphale watched Crowley fondly; then he carefully extended one hand into the space between his chair and Crowley’s. It barely hung there for a moment before Crowley took it, threading their fingers together. And Aziraphale smiled.

They sat in companionable silence, each rocking their small human, each providing the comfort that only touch can bring – and each making little changes in the nature of reality, making it that much more likely that each little human in this ward would have a chance to leave this ward in the arms of someone who loved them, that each little human would have a chance to grow up, would have a chance to live.

It wasn’t much. Aziraphale knew this. Their little changes could only do so much. But humans in their infinite, ineffable wisdom had a sort of story about this very sort of thing. It starred a man walking along a beach where a high tide had distributed thousands upon thousands of starfish, the poor things drying out in the sun and dying as the tide receded. And it starred a child, bending down and tossing the starfish into the waves one by one.

The man ridiculed the child because such was the way of arrogant men. _Why do you bother?_ the man asked the child. _There are thousands of starfish, and you are just one little child. You can’t possibly make a difference._

And the child kept tossing starfish until the man was quite done speaking, and then the child deliberately tossed another starfish into the waves. And when the child spoke, they did so with the wisdom of children and those who chose to remain childlike at heart – the wisdom of those who knew that the world was big and they were small, and who still rolled up their sleeves and chose to make their small corner of the big world that much better anyway.

_I just made a difference for that one._

Crowley and he, Aziraphale reflected, had spent the past six thousand years tossing starfish – usually separately, sometimes at cross-purposes, sometimes secretly in concert. They’d both endured the sneers and jeers of their superiors for daring to presume they could make a difference. And neither had had the courage of the child to tell the man exactly where he could stick his cynicism – until, of course, they had.

And now … now they were free to toss starfish all they wanted, working together when they felt like it, working side-by-side when they preferred to toss starfish in their own peculiar ways.

Aziraphale sighed happily and squeezed Crowley’s hand. Crowley squeezed back.

He could not think of a better way to spend the next six thousand years.

* * *

[1] Or their parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, etc.

[2] Truth to tell, Crowley may have had a thing or two to do with that. One could only nod along through so many half-drunken “VACCINATE. YOUR. FUCKING. KIDS!” rants before they began to make an impression.

[3] Though Aziraphale never phrased it like that in front of Crowley.

[4] Not that what Crowley had said was untrue or that Aziraphale objected to being obvious about his feelings for Crowley – but did he have to be so _crude_?

[5] If Aziraphale was going to take this self-indulgent trip down fantasy lane, he was going to do it _properly_.

[6] It should go without saying that while this hypothetical nursery was at Crowley’s flat, it was in no way decorated like the rest of Crowley’s flat, because no child of Aziraphale was going to spend a significant chunk of her first years of life in a room that looked like a cave.

[7] Other than Crowley.

[8] Which was another point in favor of humans. Not only did they volunteer to hold babies, but they did so in great enough numbers that hospitals didn’t have the room to let them all do it at once.

[9] And even if Crowley hadn’t been braver, there was the simple fact that Hell had not kept anywhere near as close an eye on Crowley’s miracles as Heaven had on Aziraphale’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! Thank you so much for joining me on this angsty journey. I hope the comfort at the end was worth at least some of the angst.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this! Comments give me LIFE, so don't be shy! If you spot any typos or grammatical mix-ups or something confuses you, please give me a shout-out so I can either explain or fix it. If you disagree with my characterization or plot choices ... please have a lovely day and go read something you like better.
> 
> If you'd like to chat more, please come talk to me on [Tumblr](https://morgaine2005.tumblr.com/)! Or look me up through Discord. Same username!


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